


Miles Between Us

by statichearts



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Canon-Typical Violence, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mutual Pining, Prostitution, References to Drugs, References to Nonconsensual Sexual Advances, Road Trips, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:40:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 142,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23086414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statichearts/pseuds/statichearts
Summary: In the summer of 1975, Mickey Milkovich is released from Beckman Correctional in California after a seven year prison sentence. Along with his cousin, Sandy – he's set to make the long road trip from Los Angeles back to his hometown of Chicago. On the way though, the pair pick up a hitchhiker who teaches Mickey that life on the outside has changed and the road home is never easy.(tags to be updated as the story progresses)
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Original Male Character(s), Mickey Milkovich/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 399
Kudos: 301





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> with shameless coming to an end soon, I want this to be what I go into the void with. I've been listening to 70s music for a two weeks straight so bare with me. I'm currently beta-less so any mistakes are totally my own.
> 
> for the prologue, we're gonna flash forward before we take it all the way back

The winter of 1978 is a cruel mistress.

Sandy has left another note on the fridge, taped up with another stupid round of magnets she plastered everywhere to try to make his place more presentable.

_Don’t forget to eat, idiot. Drink some damn WATER._

The last bit is in all caps, her usual swirly handwriting making Mickey’s stomach churn so early in the afternoon. Snatching the note, Mickey smashes it in between his fingers before tossing it behind his shoulder. His cousin is only trying to help, break Mickey out of whatever trance he finds himself under but she had to know better than anyone that he was too stubborn for reason. The only lifeline he needed was the beer bottle shoved deep into the back of the fridge, the only part that got any decent amount of cold.

He nearly cradles it in his grip, popping the top only to have the first half downed within a minute. The shame doesn’t usually hit him until much later in the day and Mickey is grateful for the small victories. With a slight shuffle to his step, Mickey circles the kitchen counter to see what else Sandy has left in her wake. The flashing stamp of eviction notice is circled once, twice, at least half a dozen times with Mickey’s car keys stabbed right through the paper. It takes everything in him not to roll his eyes.

The fuckers who own the place would never kick Mickey out. Too much risk and not enough reward. It’s a scare tactic at best and Mickey pays no mind to it as he flops back onto his couch, dust kicking up with the weight of his body. The hand not gripping the beer, flips the dial on the radio and as the static clears Mickey hears a familiar voice.

‘And who do you want to dedicate your song too, Amber?’

Lip Gallagher’s voice makes Mickey’s blood boil and he nearly spits out of spite. Still he lays his head back against the arm rest, his weary eyes staring up at the ceiling as Lip speaks to the distraught caller on the phone.

‘Is it real sad if I say my ex-boyfriend? We just broke up and I just – I want him to know I miss him.’ The woman’s voice cracks and Mickey takes another long swig, his chest tightening slightly.

Lip takes her sadness in stride and the sound of his fingers flicking through records resonates in the back of Mickey’s head. He hums for a beat and speaks again, cooing out his sympathies. ‘Not sad at all. That’s the point of the segment, babe. Let me put this one on for you and see if that bridges the gap.’

Lip’s voice slowly fades out and the scratch of the record slides into a slow tune, a pleasant yet melancholy sound replacing the silence. Mickey immediately feels ill and he runs a hand over his eyes, a bit of beer spilling onto his shirt.

_You know I can’t smile without you. Can’t smile without you. I can’t laugh and I can’t sing. I’m finding hard to do anything._

“A fucking joke.” Mickey mutters under his breath, his head hazy as he maps out the cracks in his ceiling. Fucking Barry Manilow, of all things. Lip was really a cruel asshole. The words begin to suffocate and Mickey sits up abruptly, spilling even more liquid onto the shag carpeting as he nearly rips one of the dials off the radio to shut it off.

The beer finds its way to the table, suddenly not as appealing as it was a minute ago.

Looking up at the clock on the mantle, Mickey sees the second hand inching to the twelve and he sighs, dragging his feet to the bedroom. It’s organized when he gets in there, vaguely remembering that he spent the last three nights on the couch with a run of ‘family feud’ on constant repeat. On every visit, Sandy tells him it’s a miracle he’s even still alive and every time, Mickey ignores her. He slides his socks off and discards them on the floor along with his worn in white t-shirt. A new one gets pulled out of a drawer, a pair of dark jeans from the closet – the same routine as the day before.

It’s hardly anything to be proud of but Mickey thinks managing to stay up on two feet is more than anyone should be asking of him. The wind whips by a thin crack in his bedroom window and Mickey finds his jacket laying at the head of his bed, still as dingy but at least Sandy didn’t try to throw it out this time. He throws it on and pulls the collar up around his neck, one hand running through his bedhead. Good enough.

Mickey doesn’t bother checking the locks, doesn’t clean up the mess he left in the kitchen. His cousin will come by again when he’s gone, she always does. His keys jingle as he picks them off of the counter, the door creaking when he opens it and heads out into the midafternoon chill. The driveway is already coated in a thin layer of snow and the sky is a dreary shade of grey, making the mood more than apt. The street is mostly empty, his neighbors opting to ignore Mickey for the most part and that’s exactly the way he likes it.

Padding through the snow, Mickey gets into the front seat of his Camaro and takes a good five minutes to get the car to start – a churning finally giving way to the roar of the engine. He shivers as the car heats up, blowing on his hands as he turns the dials on his radio to find a suitable channel. Maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s some cruel twist of fate but his fiddling lands him on Lip’s voice again. If he wasn’t late enough as it was, Mickey would have considered changing it. He resigns himself to listening to the man babble, rambling off about the most recent local tragedy while Mickey puts the car in drive. It's a solid two minutes of murder recap before Lip switches gears. 

‘Next up, we’re gonna take a little break from our local programming to bring you a cover by one of Chicago’s hometown boys.’

It has to be the first time Mickey’s heard someone play live on Lip’s show - still not really listening as the song starts playing. The tune is familiar enough, something he most likely heard in passing but when the person at the other end of the radio sings, Mickey slams on the brakes. He nearly skids into a nearby light pole, the wind knocked out of his body.

It’s him - _his_ voice and suddenly the ground beneath him begins to give out yet again.


	2. Low Rider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so we begin! hopefully I can churn out more chapters since I'll have a little more free time but we'll see how well I stick to that one
> 
> song for the chapter is low rider by war

The last time Mickey walked through the gates of Beckman Correctional, it had been an entirely different decade. To most, seven years isn’t long at all. A growth spurt, a few kids, the newest record from your favorite artist but for Mickey, seven years was an eternity spent in a void. The years rolled by without him, his existence not even a blip on the passage of time because no one cared about criminals. No one paid attention to the grime on the bottom of their shoe.

Mandy kept him up to date for a while, letters every couple of weeks until they slowly filtered out – to be replaced by his cousin Sandy’s equally dismal view of society. That was one gripe Mickey couldn’t quite come to terms with. That while he remained stagnant, stuck in some endless loop where nothing changed, where he made no advancements in his life – everyone else was still living. Now that was a cruel punishment. 

Sandy never sugarcoated the fact that it was his own fault, that Mickey should have fended for himself but at the same time - well loyalty seemed more important at the time. Prison was never supposed to be a sure thing. It was only meant to be a misdemeanor, no one cared about drugs in the sixties but Mickey was Mickey. A no good, a nobody. 

They cared about that more than the drugs. 

Big events flew by like nothing, just ways to keep track of the days. Woodstock, Hendrix, Joplin, all impactful moments that left marks on the world. To Mickey though, they were only marks on the calendar, counting down to freedom. To this point, right now. 

The court cut a year off his sentence, making Mickey a free man on June 12th, 1975. 2,555 days later. 3:15pm. 25 years old. 

Mickey’s knapsack is tossed over one shoulder as he squints up at the summer sun casting harsh rays against the pavement. He uses his hand to shield his eyes, only just making out a Dodge Challenger slowing to a crawl right beside him. A handful of other inmates are released alongside Mickey, one of them coming up behind him and clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

“You sure you don’t need a lift, Mick? Take you to the bus station, get a burger?” He speaks with familiarity and his smile reads more than fond. The smaller man only grants him a half grin, the best he’s going to manage. 

“I’m good, man. Sandy’s still coming to get me.” Mickey’s tone is noncommittal, pulled back and the other doesn’t seem phased by it one bit. He’s had seven years to get used to Mickey and the fact he was always going to leave without baggage. 

The man chuckles to clear the air, smoothing out his crumpled mechanic’s shirt – the name Roy embossed onto the left chest pocket. “Whatever you say. Just keep your nose clean out there, don’t  wanna see you anywhere near this place.” He reaches for the door handle of the Challenger, pausing only to give Mickey another once over. “And don’t be a stranger, yeah?” 

Mickey gives him no answer, just a brief nod as acknowledgement and the other man makes no move to pull something else out of him. Roy nods before making his own getaway, the Challenger tearing off in the other direction, leaving old dust clouds behind it. 

He watches as it goes, follows it until it passes the far gates and out of sight. It’s been thirty minutes and it still doesn’t feel real. His body reacts every time the door behind him opens, a flinch when he hears a guard’s voice in the distance. Even the minutes that tick by seem to run on an automatic timer, knowing the exact time that would have passed until yard time was over. 

Something about freedom didn’t feel all that free yet.

It’s another solid ten minutes before another engine roars close enough that Mickey can catch it, the thump of the radio being heard in perfect synchronization. He’s already shaking his head when the cherry red Camaro skids to a sloppy stop, mere inches away from his feet. The woman in the driver’s seat pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head before leaning over, quickly bringing down the window enough for her voice to resonate. 

“Sorry I’m late,” she says with a lift, a hint of a chuckle as she grins at her cousin. 

Sandy’s not a day older than 21, her birthday only a few months prior but the last time Mickey laid eyes on her, she was barely seventeen and a fresh runaway. She’s still recognizable though minus a few extra scars on her face, her hair several inches longer but that same crooked smile that matches his own. She’s wearing bell bottoms, a coca cola logo printed across the front of her shirt underneath her brown suede jacket.

Mickey scoffs, amusement written on his face. “You look like an asshole,” he comments as he pulls the door open, tossing his knapsack in the backseat. 

“That’s what you say to your cousin after four years, huh?” Sandy’s smile refuses to falter as she wraps her arms around him, squeezing the life out of Mickey against his own will. 

“Jesus, Sandy. Come on.” 

“Shut up and say you missed me.” 

Mickey does no such thing and when Sandy pulls back only to ruffle a hand through his hair, he mutters a quick ‘fuck you’. 

“You look good though, Mick. Kind of scruffy for an old man but not bad.” 

In a way, Mickey knows she’s just saying that. His style is outdated, clothes that she picked up for him when the seventies had barely started, when his chest was less broad and his demeanor wasn’t so muted.  Clearly he projects the sentiment on his face because Sandy quickly compensates. 

“We’ll get you some new clothes when we pick up the cash.” 

Just the mention of his most likely long-gone money makes Mickey shiver, a roll of treachery crawling down his spine and he spits out the window that’s still cracked open. 

“Let’s just get out of here. I’m fucking tired of seeing the place.” 

Sandy obliges with a curt nod, tearing off in the same way the other car had just minutes earlier. The dust kicks up behind them and Mickey watches as his prison blurs against the glare of the windshield, something of a mirage as they put more and more distance between himself and the building. It looms there in the background, taunting him until Mickey pulls his eyes away, giving the place a very enthusiastic middle finger as Sandy takes the first exit out into the city. 

**

Los Angeles isn’t that much different than he remembers. The smog still coats every inch while teenagers scour the streets, cigarettes hanging from their lips as they huddle around new records, black and shiny vinyl. The store fronts are decorated with new faces, artists Mickey has never heard of and foods he’s never eaten. Sandy flips the radio to something that starts like a fucking cow bell and Mickey grimaces. 

“Change it.” 

Sandy rolls her eyes and turns the volume up instead as she heads down a secondary street, passing several restaurants on her way through the crowded city streets. The sun is setting in the background, fading behind the Hollywood sign as Sandy speaks. “Time to get hip to the times again, Mickey. World’s changed since you’ve been gone.”

He sees a pair of men walk by, huddling together with their arms brushing as they move and he throws his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes with a huff out of his nose. “Yeah, no kidding.”

At any other point in time, Mickey might have asked to stay, indulged in the nightlife like the good old days but he isn’t eighteen anymore. This isn’t his Los Angeles anymore. Sandy even forgoes asking if he wants to stay, heading out to the highway in record time. From his window, Mickey watches the tourist spots go by and each one stirs something inside, memories he’s made attempts to bury.

Good riddance if you ask him.

The trip to Chicago is thirty hours if they make little to no stops, at worst a couple of days that he’ll have to listen to Sandy yap about how shit Terry’s been back home, her loser ass boyfriend, the single time she’s heard from Mandy or Iggy in the last seven years. Nothing to shock him but everything that will get his blood pressure up. He’s still disappointed that Terry isn’t back in prison but his dad always did have all the luck.

As they pull out onto the highway, Sandy taps her hands on the steering wheel with her fingers, humming along with the newest Bowie tune. Mickey is thankful for something he vaguely recognizes. 

“So - I was thinking about our first stop.” Sandy starts, not even glancing Mickey’s way because he almost knows what she’s going to say. His teeth clench behind his pulled back lips and the retort is already on its way out. 

“No. No fucking way.” 

Sandy scowls and lifts her hand, fist ready as if she’s about to punch him straight across the face. “Are you kidding me? Do you want your money or not? I have a total of a hundred bucks and I had to work my ass off to get that for us.”

“A hundred bucks.” Mickey blinks as he stares at his cousin, dumbfounded. “Unless the dollar has fucking dropped in the last seven years, we won’t make it half way with a hundred bucks. We have to eat and sleep and I didn’t leave a bunk in prison to sleep in your car.” 

“Mickey.” Sandy deadpans, sneering at her cousin. “I know that. I meant a hundred bucks until we get to Vegas, idiot.” She punches him then, making his brows turn even more distinctly into a scowl.

“Okay and if he doesn’t have it?”

She pauses, clearing her throat as if to get herself back together. “Then we have plan B.”

“And what’s plan B, huh?” 

The car goes silent for a good minute with Sandy’s eyes focusing straight ahead, intent on the road ahead of her. It’s not a stupid question, just one she hadn’t planned on him asking. Mickey doesn’t completely blame her but he’s weary, distrusting, filled with second thoughts that he basked in for years. He’s about to speak again when Sandy’s lips turn up and a very miniscule smile appears.

“Then we get it the  old-fashioned way.” 

Mickey blanks for the second time, ready to strangle his cousin right then and there. “Great so we steal it, I go back to prison for another hundred years and die. Sounds great.” 

“It’s an option.”

“Not $10,000 worth of an option.” And they both know there’s no real argument to that one, the weight of that amount hanging over both of their heads. 

“Should have been a bank robber,” she mutters and it breaks the tension. 

Mickey manages a laugh, running a hand over his forehead. “Or we can pinch a couple hundred off someone at least. That I can do.” 

A chuckle leaves her and Mickey remembers why she was the only one who ever understood. The only one who ever cared enough to visit. Sandy was the one who knew Mickey. 

“How about a hitchhiker? They’re easy to rob, right?” Sandy says abruptly, one hand coming up off the steering wheel to point to a spot in the distance. The darkening skyline keeps Mickey from seeing completely clearly but there’s a vague silhouette in the direction of her finger. The closer they get, the more it looks like just a kid, bag at his feet and his thumb out in the road.

The protest is out of his mouth before he can stop it, his body becoming board straight in his seat. “What is it with you and your bad ideas? We’re not picking up some random kid just so we can rob him and then you fuck him.” 

Sandy gets a nondescript look on her face but decelerates the car anyway, inching foot by foot to the kid in the road. “He’s not my type.” 

Among the traffic and the wind of the local summer breeze, Sandy lowers the music on the radio to a dull thumping as she pulls the Camaro up to the right side of the kid, promptly ignoring Mickey’s growling under his breath. The man is taken aback, if his expression is anything to go by. He stays frozen on the spot, eyes darting from the road to the car and back again as if testing the waters. From what Mickey can see, he can’t be any older than him, mid-twenties at worst. His red hair catches the light and his clothes are simple, a pair of plain brown corduroys and a white t-shirt. 

Nothing special. 

The uncertainty on the kid’s face quickly disappears though when Sandy leans over Mickey to roll down the window, her smile pleasant and welcoming to match the one the other was now wearing. “You need a ride?” She asks as if that wasn’t obvious enough and Mickey is stone cold beside her, barricaded by her arm over his chest. 

The kid reaches back for his bag that laid in the gravel and nods while he brushes a hand through his hair, seemingly straightening himself out. “Yeah, for sure.” His grin is almost too obnoxious to bear and Mickey pushes Sandy off but only for her to shove him right back. 

“Get up.” The sound from Sandy launches spit into Mickey’s left ear and he closes his eyes again, composing his rage into a dull roar. 

Unlocking his door, Mickey nearly flings it open and the edge of it catches the kid’s legs. If it hurts, he doesn’t flinch and keeps grinning that stupid fucking grin. All Mickey can do is grumble as he gets out, taking the initiative to move his chair back before Sandy starts her barking again. It folds down enough to expose the backseat and the redhead clamors in, throwing his bag in ahead of him. 

This must be a further continuation of Mickey’s punishment. 

Mickey puts every bit of annoyance into putting his chair back, the door shaking the car when he slams it shut again. He pretends not to notice Sandy glaring daggers into the side of his face and motions for her to start driving again before they waste even more time. He’s done enough of that already. 

“Thank you so much for this.” And the kid starts talking immediately, must to Mickey’s chagrin. “I’ve been trying to hitch for fucking days now.” His laugh is clear, his words are polite but not too tidy and Mickey hates it already. 

Sandy matches the stranger’s demeanor, putting on some hostess air to her voice with the clear intention of making him feel comfortable. “Where are you headed?”

A pause. “Chicago but I’ll go as far as you’ll take me. I’m not picky.”

The radio changes to the next song, leaving a brief break in the music and Mickey’s air leaves his chest. Of course, perfect. Just perfect. The one city in the whole of the country. For a second, Mickey wonders if they ever knew the kid but there’s no way he was southside. Not with a smile like that. 

“No kidding. That’s wild, so are we.” Sandy shouldn’t be so pleased with herself but she is, hiding back a smirk to spare Mickey the silent gloating.

A hand grips the side of his chair and the man is poking his head out between the middle of them, his eyes practically lit on fire. “If that’s an invitation to tag along then I’ll owe you. Money, drugs, whatever.”

Sandy considers it, her teeth biting down on her bottom lip as she formulates an idea in her brain. Mickey knows her well enough to know when she’s planning something and for once, he really wishes she wouldn’t. 

“I think we can manage that. We’ll figure something out.” 

The words alone make the stranger breathe out something that sounds like relief, all cheek bones and eye crinkles. Mickey turns his head to stare at his cousin with annoyance itched into every line on his face, a sharp contrast to the man in the seat behind him. His first day in the real world and instead of a semi-relaxing trip home with him ranting about prison food, he’s stuck with a strangler in the backseat, most likely aimed and ready to judge him. Leaning back in his seat, Mickey mouths a ‘are you fucking serious?’ to which Sandy promptly replies with a ‘he seems nice.’ 

Fuck being  _ nice _ . 

Like a petulant child, Mickey crosses his arms around his chest and shifts his body to face the window while Sandy perks up with questions. “So - you got a name? I figure if we’re all  gonna be stuck together for a while, we should make this official.” She plays with the radio while she waits for his response, settling on a round of Dolly Parton. 

“Oh, um – Ian. Ian Gallagher,” he says without much hesitance and Mickey finds the naivety even more aggravating. Sandy doesn’t agree, clearly. 

“I’m Sandy and this is my moody cousin, Mickey. Milkovich.” She tacks on, making a mocking face to counteract Mickey’s scowl. 

If Ian senses the tension, he makes no comment on it and laughs – seemingly his go to for combating any sort of nerves. “Good to meet you. I’ll be honest, I’m glad you all seem normal. I’ve hitched with some real characters.”

Mickey scoffs, knowing Ian’s opinion had the very strong chance of going south, and Sandy punches him in the shoulder, the car falling silent for a moment. Ian opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out until Sandy comes to his rescue.

“Don’t mind him. ” Sandy placates the situation though Mickey isn’t sure why. They don’t owe this guy any sort of kindness. 

“No, it’s cool. I get it. Just – thanks.” Ian mutters, offering Sandy a small smile that Mickey can see through the rear view mirror. 

The ride becomes relatively silent again after that with Sandy maintaining only the required amount of small talk. Ian’s 23, skipped college to go on a trip around the country, has six siblings, and a distinct dislike of disco. At least there is one point they find common ground on. Meanwhile Sandy goes on for ages about herself, a catch up for Mickey and a brand-new course for Ian. She embellishes most of it, leaves out details about their shitty house, their shitty relatives, how fucked up their lives are.

On the road leading outside of Los Angeles, Sandy is just a dropout who works part time at the local diner and Mickey is just her cousin who finished up some work seminar out in the sticks. It’s nice to live in the façade, slip into someone else’s shoes for a spell. 

Mickey hasn’t been just Mickey in a long time.

The only break in Sandy’s blabber is when the road signs change up ahead and she gets a dazed look of pleasure on her face. 

“So? Vegas?” 

And Mickey is sure that his hell has just begun. 


	3. Hollywood Swinging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took me a while but thank you to everyone who is sticking with this! I love and appreciate comments so please leave one if you feel so inclined.
> 
> twitter: @s11mikhailo  
> tumblr: xgoldendays

If Mickey thought anyone else in the world might have his back, he’d kill Sandy with his bare hands. The past two hours had been the same shit, wash and repeat. Sandy muttered along to every song on the radio, even the songs she didn’t know while their tag a long stayed nearly mute in the back seat with only the occasional sniffle or clearing of his throat. It was the same monotony of prison but with a soundtrack and the faint smell of old spice wafting from behind him. 

They pass a sign detailing 150 miles to Vegas and Mickey’s breath fogs up the window as he huffs. It isn’t that Mickey so much hates it as much as he loathes it, tension making his shoulders square and rigid as he taps his boots against the inner lining of the car door. Sandy knows what’s at stake and she still pulls this with him every time, stupid schemes when Mickey is aching for a well thought out plan for once. She sees Ian as a distraction while Mickey can’t stop thinking of him as a silent nuisance. 

“So - who’s hungry?” Sandy announces with a knowing look, midway through Mickey’s stomach rumbling. A strained smile is all Mickey has in him and he sighs, rolling his head to look her in the eye. 

“What do you think?”

“I’m asking. That okay with everyone?” 

Mickey gives a grunt that is halfway between annoyance and complacency despite the fact that a real meal has eluded him for years now. From the back, Ian’s shuffling makes the interior squeak and he mutters a soft ‘sure’ which is all Sandy needs before she’s taking the next exit off the highway. 

“Just so we know everyone will get along, we’ve got -” The woman rummages around in the middle half of the car, fingers digging in between seats before producing a brand new, travel sized bottle of whiskey and plopping it into Mickey’s lap. “Bottle for the baby. And Ian, first one’s a freebie. On me.” 

The man shows his face for the first time in hours and Mickey acts as if his eyes don’t naturally travel to the corner of his vision to get a glimpse of him. 

“Appreciate it.”

Mickey’s mouth parts but before he gets a chance to speak, Sandy is shoving a cigarette toward his lips with gruff shushing sound. “Can’t forget baby’s pacifier.” 

Ian giggles, fucking giggles at Sandy’s stupid comment and Mickey can’t tell if it’s annoying or something else.

“At least light it, bitch,” Mickey targets her with his pointed words, eyes sharp and narrowed. 

Sandy does just that if only to placate him, stuffing her lighter back down her shirt without so much as a blink of an eye. The town they’ve found themselves in, settled a mile off the highway, is practically out in the sticks, all tumbleweeds and arid ground that rolls away in dust clouds. The local bums take post outside the one drinking hole, their smoke swirling up into the darkening sky. Everybody knows there’s practically nothing from LA to Vegas but this is a version of small town Mickey only saw in the movies. 

Heading down one of several dusty dirt roads, Sandy slows the car to a crawl as she scans the mom and pop shops for the quintessential diner that every town has. The grease  pit . “Ah-ha!” She takes a sharp left turn, nearly colliding with a motorcycle parked out front as she skids to a stop. “Perfect.”

Mickey eyes the place and his weighted brow furrows, taking in the dilapidated condition of the place. It’s a soft blue on the outside, the paint cracking from years of neglect and the windows are yellowed and foggy, masking the people inside. It’s better than most of the places Mickey remembers from back home. Sandy raps on his window and tells him to hurry up, gesturing to their backseat. 

Right. The kid. 

It’s a fight not to roll his eyes as he gets out of the car, closing the door back in Ian’s face. Sandy gives him a healthy shove, nearly snatching the cigarette out of his mouth with one swoop. “Be nice, Jesus Christ.”

“You want me to be nice? Maybe tell him I’m a fucking felon and he’ll leave. I’ll be nice then.” 

Sandy glowers in a way that gets under Mickey’s skin and the two have a short staring match while Ian crawls his way out of the car, running a hand through his tousled hair as he fumbles with the door. He looks nonplussed, almost amused and Mickey wonders why he didn’t take the bus. Sandy pushes him ahead with a ‘go, walk’ and he drags his heels to the entrance, the cigarette still dangling from his lips. 

The inside is warm and inviting though it contrasts when comparing it to the blank look in the patrons’ eyes, half of them not glancing up from the papers to acknowledge the newcomers. It’s a miracle most of them have all their teeth, given the looks of their surroundings.

He tugs off his jacket and tosses it one of the nearby booths, pushing up the sleeves of his pullover as he sits down. It’s a silent command to Sandy that she not make Ian sit with him but of course she doesn’t give a damn about what he thinks. 

“You sit with Mickey. I like to spread out.” 

Sandy’s face is horribly smug as she nudges Ian into the booth, his shoulders bumping with Mickey’s as he gets settled. Their eyes connect for a brief second and a light tingle runs along Mickey’s back, one that he displaces by snatching his menu up and using it as a shield between them. The quick reaction only makes Ian smirk but he says nothing as he scans the menu himself. 

The silence that lingers between the three of them is more comforting than Mickey is willing to admit and he’s lost some of his snappiness when the waitress comes around. She pulls a pen from behind her ear and a notepad, popping some gum right in their faces. “What can I get you?” 

Sandy perks up  first. “Burger, medium rare. Extra salt on the fries.”

Ian’s next, his fingers playing with the worn edges of the plastic.

“Um, turkey sandwich. Plain.”

Mickey scoffs a bit at  Ian’s order but keeps most of it to himself. “Pancakes. As many as I can get. Butter and syrup. Bring the whole bottle.”

The waitress jots it all down, her pen scratching against the paper. She pops another bubble and takes their menus without saying anything else, leaving the three of them to wade in their own silence yet again. The jukebox in the corner switches to a tune by the Ramones and Sandy takes the opportunity to stand up from the table, pointing over her shoulder. 

“Bathroom. Be right back,” she tells them without making eye contact with Mickey, who gapes at her as she disappears round the corner. 

Without his cousin’s presence at the other side of the table, it’s just Ian and him sitting side by side, alone. Two men alone sitting on the same side of the table. That’s not strange at all. Mickey clears his throat and sneaks the whiskey out from his jacket, pouring some of it into his glass. He takes a long swig, knocking it back in one gulp but nearly chokes on it because of the man beside him. 

“What’s it  mean ?”

Mickey coughs into his sleeve and sets the glass down, eyeing Ian like he suddenly grew three heads in front of his eyes. “What?”

“What’s it  mean ?” Ian points to Mickey’s exposed forearm, his head tilted in an attempt to read the scrawled words of his tattoo. 

Mickey finds himself caught off guard when most guys that he chooses not to like, take a step back, cower in front of him but Ian is looking him right in the eye. Most people don’t look at him for very long.

“It’s - got it back in California. Means Southside Forever.” The sting is lost in his words, his confusion at why Ian’s even asking making him falter. 

The other man blinks as if he’s taking in the answer until he laughs, his hand twisting a napkin into a ball. “Most of the people from back home are itching to get out, not keep some part of it with them.”

“You’re Southside?” 

Mickey can’t help how incredulous his tone becomes since he pegged Ian as a northside yuppie from the get go. Sitting this close to him though, Mickey notes the faint lines of scars on his arms, worn knuckles on his dominant hand and then he’s the one that’s laughing. 

“I told Sandy that back in Barstow, thanks for listening.” 

Ian doesn’t find Mickey’s lack of attention surprising and just melds his laughter with his. It’s almost as if Mickey’s dislike for the other man dissipates into a mild annoyance, still distrusting, still weary but slightly more willing to listen. 

“You blaming me?” Mickey flicks a thumb across his nose, the ash from his burning down cigarette falling on the table. 

Ian shrugs. “No, not really.”

Mickey has more to say for once but Ian’s gaze has him lost for words, not entirely sure why he’s lost them and only knowing that his thoughts have receded into the back of his head. The two don’t break eye contact until Sandy slides back into the booth, wiping her hands along her blue jeans. 

“Look at you two, still alive. I call that progress.” She scoots her glass of water closer, obnoxiously sipping from the straw as she eyes both her cousin and their new companion. 

Mickey certainly doesn’t speak, blowing smoke out in the opposite direction while Ian clears his throat and chirps up as normal, as if anything about this is normal. “I was telling him about how he doesn’t listen. Me being southside and all.” 

“He never listens. It’s a personality trait.” Sandy teases gently. “Ian’s family lives down on Homan. Two streets down. Isn’t that funny, Mick?”

No, it’s really not funny. It’s circumstantial and plays into all the shit Sandy spews about fate. Things like fate didn’t exist. 

She takes his silence as an answer and she chats idly to Ian about their plans, taking to drawing things up on a napkin she unraveled. 

“Once we hit Vegas, it’s basically a straight shot back home -” 

Her incessant babbling combines with her scribbling and only half the table is interested. The only thing that knocks Mickey out of his stupor is the smell of pancakes drifting past his nose and he sits up straighter, accepting the plate when the waitress returns to deliver their food. Sandy nudges hers to the side while Ian grabs half of his sandwich in one hand, eyes fixating on the woman’s piss poor doodles. 

“But I have to get this one back before the end of the month or his new job might kill the both of us.” 

Mickey groans, knowing very well that’s Sandy speak for ‘they might put out a warrant for him by then’ but he’s thankful for the tiniest bit of tact that she has left in her. He tunes them out again, not realizing that in doing so, he’s shoveling food into his mouth by the truckload. His pancakes are nearly swimming in the syrup he drizzles over the top and he closes his eyes to relish in the taste. 

Fuck prison and its cardboard food. 

The rest of the time goes by uneventfully minus the shitty map of the continental United States that Sandy creates for Ian to ogle at. Mickey sees the little wiggles guiding the way, with Chicago marked with a star along with several other locations marked with a dot. The prospect of stopping any more than once, has him gritting his teeth but Sandy’s plans never seem to find their way to completion. That much hasn’t changed. 

When they’re all done, Ian having left a quarter of his sandwich to rot on his plate, Sandy digs around in her pockets for a twenty and slaps it on the table. 

“Let’s go then, ladies. We’re burning daylight.”

The other two get up and the chatter keeps at it while Mickey brings up the rear, sliding his jacket back onto his body. The scowl that he lost is back on his face and his body trudges with exhaustion as the threesome pile back into the car for the next hour and a half left to Vegas. Sandy wastes no time in tearing out and back onto the dirt road, the streetlights turning on one by one as the nighttime starts to consume the day. 

As much as Mickey missed the sunlight, something about the darkness is comforting. It helps ease his thoughts, reminds him of the quiet of his cell, the times where he was able to breathe on his own without someone barking at him to get up or keep quiet or stay in his place. They get back on the highway and Mickey rests his head against the glass, his eyes slipping shut as Sandy and Ian’s voices fade away into nothing. 

**

When Mickey feels a hand press into his shoulder next, seemingly only seconds have gone by. It’s on instinct that he startles, his fists flying toward the intruder. It’s only when he wakes up more fully that he realizes he nearly clocked Sandy in the face though his cousin isn’t the least bit taken aback. She knows Mickey. His muscles are laced with deflection, tethered to a hair trigger even after all these years. 

The woman pats the side of his cheek with one hand, a motherly sort of smile only halfway visible in between the road lights. “We’re almost there.”

Sitting up, Mickey rubs at his eyes until the lights around them become clear. The normal  pale yellow streetlights have morphed into sparkling – red, yellow, blue, purple – lights that glimmer against the glass. With one arm around the back of Mickey’s seat, Ian appears with a cigarette in his own lips, the ash accumulating at the tip. 

Somehow the sight catches Mickey for longer than the lights. 

“I called ahead, back at the last rest stop.” Sandy’s voice breaks through again and Mickey snaps back to reality in an instant. “Iggy won’t be back until tomorrow, something about business in Salt Lake.” 

Mickey’s eyes roll so hard that he feels them shift in his brain. 

“Great so – what's the plan? We find somewhere to stay, get the stuff off him tomorrow?”

Sandy nods  stiffly . “Yeah, pretty much. Maybe a little something else.”

“Something else?” Ian asks the question for Mickey, smoke billowing from his lips. 

Sandy gleamed, taking the cigarette from Ian’s lips like they were old friends and sucking the tobacco into her own lungs. “What? Did you think we were going to come to Vegas and not have fun? You can have your rest tonight, cousin but tomorrow, it’s all big city living.” 

“Great,” he mumbles, one hand running over his face.

Those words only spell trouble for Mickey and he glowers for the thousandth time that day, quite possibly the only person in Vegas who couldn’t find a reason to be happy. 

Sandy takes their car down the iconic Vegas strip, her fingers excitedly tapping on the steering wheel as they pass the sign welcoming to the pinnacle of sin, the cesspit of debauchery.  The chaos around them is reminiscent of LA, the same scatterings of people exchanging pills and plants while the music thuds heavily through crowded casinos. The silence Mickey found himself used to is slowly becoming a thing of the past. 

“Which one’s he at again?” Mickey asks, rolling his window down halfway to get some air. 

“Stardust. He’s got that swanky gig with the new owners.” 

She’s saying it more to Ian than Mickey, who is pretty sure he knows what his own brother is up to even if he hasn’t seen him since the turn of the last decade. Ian oohs and his grin nearly blinds Mickey, his enthusiasm rubbing off on him in a way that makes him squirm. Part of Mickey wishes he still cared about the simple things – sex, drugs, rock & roll. It would make everything ten times easier.

It takes a whole twenty minutes to get to the end of the strip that the casino is located on, being greeted by a high impact sign swirling out the name ‘Stardust’. Iggy really did have it made, lucky bastard. The parking lot is mostly full but Sandy manages to sneak the car into a spot just to the right of the entrance, ignoring that signs clearly stating ‘no parking.’ 

The excitement in her overflows and Sandy nearly bounds out of the car, hopping back and forth as she waves the two men out. Mickey chuckles because it really seems like Sandy is the one who just got out of prison. Getting out, Mickey turns around the front of the car, resting his body against the frame as he takes in the sight in front of him. All things considered, it’s pretty damn impressive. The hotel towers behind the smaller entrance, people hanging out of balconies with w hoops and hollers. 

Sandy waves a hand at the pair as she backs up, gesturing to the double doors leading inside. “I’m getting the room keys. Don’t get lost, children,” she teases as she disappears, leaving Ian and Mickey alone yet again.

Without a word, Ian slowly pulls up beside him as Mickey eyes the neon lights with scorn glittering in his gaze. It’s inevitable. The jealousy. He pretends not to notice how the other is starting at him and sets his lips into a straight line. 

“So your brother works here?”

Mickey spares him a glance at best, only offering seconds up to acknowledge how the lights dance across Ian’s face. 

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Must be nice.” 

A pause. “Which part?”

Because to Mickey seeing his good for nothing brother is hardly anything to be thrilled about, despite the flashy casino and boatloads of cash. 

Ian shrugs, his eyes traveling down to his feet. “Knowing someone with money, connections. My family’s not really like that.”

An airy chuckle escapes Mickey and Ian almost mirrors it, getting a tiny bit of pleasure from making the man do anything other than frown. 

“Mine’s not either, trust me.”

“Guess we have that in common then.” Ian aims to ask another question but he only nods, quietly grateful for Sandy’s reappearance only a few minutes later. She waves two sets of keys in her hands, a soft blush on her cheeks seemingly from the thrill. 

Handing over one set to Ian, Sandy pockets the other. “One for you two and one for me.” 

Mickey waits for the punchline but it never comes.

“The fuck  do you mean us two?”

There isn’t guilt in Sandy’s expression as much as a bit of smugness as she sways back and forth on her heels. “Look, they were only  gonna give us the one and I told them we know Iggy which talked them up to two. You should be thanking me.”

For what, Mickey didn’t have the slightest clue. 

“And you can’t share?”

“I’m a fucking woman,” Sandy snaps at him, fixing him with a  well-placed middle finger. 

“ Oh now you are.” Mickey bites right back at her and mirrors her actions like two twin siblings fighting over who gets the top bunk bed. 

Either way, Sandy isn’t fazed and starts bouncing away again, her eyes simply alight with excitement. “I’m going to explore. I’ll catch you all for breakfast in the morning, yeah?” 

Mickey goes to protest but what is he supposed to say? No, he won’t babysit the kid. No, he won’t share a room with him. Any of those options and he’s suddenly more of an asshole than he already has been, which isn’t as tempting as  it once was. 

“Just - hurry the hell up, Gallagher.”  With his bag in his hand, Mickey hooks it over his right shoulder and moves to get inside, not looking back to see if Ian is actually following. 

The inside proves to be as impressive as the outside, all plush carpeting and wood paneling. It’s far from empty but most of the parties are pouring out of open doors, couples pushed up against each other as Mickey squeezes between them. 

It must be quite a sight, the pair of them. Mickey being dark and brooding, Ian shiny and new with those stupid pearly whites. It’s practically criminal. As Mickey scans room numbers, he waves a hand back at Ian. 

“What’s the room number?”

It takes Ian a second of jingling to get it out. “144.” 

Mickey nods and keeps going, seeing the numbers climb up to the right one just down the hall. Get in, take a shower, go to bed. Nothing else, nothing weird because it’s not weird. It isn’t. Stopping at the right door, Mickey holds his hand out behind him for the key and waits for Ian to drop it into his awaiting palm. He can tell he wants to say something, maybe his own sick way of reading people.

As the door creaks open, Mickey flicks on a light and is thankful to find two beds in the room. He tosses his bag onto the one in the far corner next to the window and sighs, kicking his shoes off so they fall somewhere under the bed. The bed parallel to Mickey’s squeaks when Ian drops his knapsack but instead of falling back on the mattress as Mickey has, he stands there and watches him. 

“I was thinking -” Ian shuffles, hands stuffing themselves into his pockets. “-do you want to go to the bar, maybe? Get a drink?”

Mickey throws a hand over his eyes as he rolls over to face the ceiling. “Nah, I’m good.”

Without being able to see him, Mickey thinks maybe Ian left the room, went to use the can or something but he hears a sharp intake of breath that tells him otherwise. 

“You sure? Just thought you might need one.”

Mickey has to stop himself from growling out every syllable. “I’m good.” 

It goes quiet again but only for a second and Mickey parts his fingers enough to see Ian scratching at the back of his neck. 

“Okay, um guess I’ll go by myself.” Ian takes the rejection in stride, his eyes wandering over Mickey’s form for a few seconds before tossing the keys to land on Mickey’s stomach. 

The other doesn’t move a muscle, just reaching his free hand to grip them and place them onto the pillow above his head. “You do that.”

Mickey hides his view again and only lets out a breath when he hears the faint click of the door closing behind Ian. 

Thank  _ fuck _ . 

Mickey dozes off again and reawakens hours later to the lights still on but the room very much empty beside his crumpled-up form, curled into his mattress. His brow furrows as he checks the clock marking nearly 11pm and mutters under his breath. Sandy might very well roast him for not checking up on the kid but what was he? A babysitter? Not in this lifetime. Snatching the pack of  cigarettes he stowed away in his bag, Mickey shoves the pack into his back pocket after slipping one between his lips. This was plenty fun for him. 

Cigarettes and whiskey. His best friends.

Opening the door with one hand, Mickey sticks his head out into the hall. Maybe he’d go find Sandy, get something more than gas station alcohol in his system and come back to find Gallagher crying to be let in like some sick puppy. It was better than nothing. His fingers flick the back of his lighter and he almost has it lit until he hears a healthy round of giggling echo through the empty space. 

Two bodies make their way around the corner, each one with an arm around the other’s middle. They’re so close that their breath is practically mingling, the stench of alcohol wafting off of them from down the way. Mickey is frozen to the spot as he watches them, a weird twist in his stomach as he sees Ian press himself against the stranger in way that men aren’t supposed to do. 

The air feels pulled directly out of Mickey’s chest and when Ian whispers something into the man’s ear, Mickey quickly shuts the door out of fear of being seen. His cigarette burns down but he can’t find it in him to care. All Mickey can do is stare at the hardwood of the door frame, hoping that he didn’t see what he saw. 

There was no fucking way.


	4. Get Down Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things are really going to pick up. The chapters are probably going to be longer from here on out so bear with me! As always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated. Big big thank you's to my two wonderful friends:  
> heather - [whaticameherefor](http://whaticameherefor.tumblr.com)  
> and willa - [oforamuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse/pseuds/oforamuse)  
> for reading this mess for me and helping me out of my struggle.
> 
> find me at:  
> twitter: [@s11mikhailo](https://twitter.com/s11mikhailo)  
> tumblr: [@xgoldendays](http://xgoldendays.tumblr.com/)  
> 

If nights in prison were shit, then the night Mickey just experienced was scraping the bottom of the barrel. 

Light filters through the softly billowing curtains of the hotel room as Mickey stirs, one hand aggressively scrubbing his face. He sits up, his face scrunched up and dazed from a night of restless sleep. If tossing and turning in his bed for hours constitutes as sleep.  With a heavy weight on his chest, it takes Mickey a few seconds of composing himself before the thoughts he put to rest awoke once again.

He turns his head to look at the bed next to his, just as aware as he was last night of the body that’s occupying it. Ian’s sleeping quietly, his features relaxed and calm compared to Mickey’s endless loads of tension. He seems serene almost, not a bit of worry clouding his head as he slumbers. Mickey’s eyes wander down the expanse of Ian’s chest without thinking, mapping out the smooth incline down to where the man’s legs disappear under white sheets.

It takes thirty seconds before Mickey’s blood runs cold. 

He tears his eyes away, biting down hard on his bottom lip as he fumbles to get out of bed. His body feels warm all over but his insides feel frozen, frostbitten and paralyzed. Going over to his bag, Mickey collects his clothes from the night before since it’s almost all he has, and heads off to the shower before the other has a chance to wake. 

The only upside to prison was Mickey learned how to do everything fast. Eat fast, shower fast, shit fast. The second skill coming in handy right in that moment. He turns the shower up nearly all the way, the steam filling the room in a matter of minutes. As the water streams down Mickey’s back, he listens in to hear even the slightest amount of stirring - a yawn, a stretch - anything that might signal that Ian’s awake. It wasn’t avoidance as much as it was self-preservation, something Mickey knew far too much about.

Five minutes later, Mickey is toweling off with one hand on a toothbrush as he multitasks to the sounds of invisible guards barking at him to get a move on. He can still feel their breath on the back of his neck, the looming threat of a midday beating serving as motivation to get ready faster.  The justification makes it almost seem okay as it only takes five extra minutes to finish up and when Mickey leans back into the room fully dressed, Ian’s still sleeping silently. 

Leaving the card key on the desk, Mickey makes sure not to so much as peer in Ian’s direction and simply sneaks out the front door, hoping that maybe Sandy would know the right thing to say.

Turns out she doesn’t.

\--

“Okay, I’m still not getting the problem.”

Mickey sits across from Sandy at the Stardust’s in-house restaurant, a plate of piled high bacon and eggs acting as a blockade between the two of them. The pair of them seem out of place in a joint like this, where the adults stick their nose up at kids like them, all ratted clothes and cigarette smoke. Mickey had spent the last twenty minutes trying to get Sandy to understand but watched as every word flew over the top of her head.

“He was with a guy.”

The straw plunged deep into Sandy’s orange juice slurps up the last of the liquid as she blinks blankly at her cousin. 

“So?”

_ So _ Mickey hadn’t slept a wink in the last twelve hours. He had crawled back in bed after slamming the door shut, mindlessly shedding his coat and pants to lay face up on his bed. It felt like his system had somehow overflowed with information, the tips of his fingers tingling and his heart creating a low thump in his chest. It wasn’t something he ever really felt before and that was how he knew he shouldn’t feel it again. 

“So is – I have to share a room with him.” Mickey tries to seal the point there, not leave it open for interpretation because there’s nothing to interpret.

Meanwhile Sandy stays silent, contemplative as she waves the waiter down for more orange juice. They’re not paying for any of it – Sandy charging it to a room they’ll never pay for. 

“It’s only for another day, Mick. Not like you didn’t just spend seven years shacked up with some guy.”

Somehow, it’s not the same thing.

“Wasn’t shacked up with anyone. It’s called fucking prison,” he hisses at her, his tone low and unassuming as he snatches a handful of bacon and slaps it on his plate. 

“Idiot,” Sandy mumbles right back at him as she stabs a mound of eggs. “Whatever your problem is, you should probably squash it. He’s here.”

Mickey didn’t need to ask who she meant. He runs a hand over his forehead, clearing his throat as he grips his fork to poke and prod at the food in front of them. 

“Ian.” Sandy pulls out the chair for their new arrival, patting the soft velvet seat. “Sit next to me this time.”

The man comes into Mickey’s eyeline and he’s just as relaxed as when Mickey left him earlier that morning. The only differences are the fresh smell of soap, Ian’s long hair slicked back away from his face,  and his collar is pulled up oddly high around his neck. 

Settling in, Ian just smiles as he peruses the display in front of him, a fork making its way into his grip. “Looks like you started without me.”

Mickey continues to stab his eggs like he has a personal vendetta against them, staring Sandy down in favor of giving Ian the time of day. Sandy just laughs, brushing it off as she continues to suck down orange juice like it’s spiked, which it very easily could be. The idea of making small talk makes Mickey’s skin crawl, knowing that he was the worst at keeping things light – the king of the straight face.

“You were up early.” Ian states somewhat abruptly, a piece of toast halfway toward his mouth.

It takes Mickey a minute to realize he’s being spoken to, reluctantly meeting Ian’s gaze while Sandy peers between the two of them. 

The words are partway strangled, coughing a bit to clear the food from his throat. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Ian hums lightly, taking a bite and waiting until it’s mostly chewed before speaking again. “I figured. I guess I didn’t peg you for a guy to leave his stuff with a stranger in the room.”

His tone is cheeky, playful in a way that Mickey isn’t used to and he squares up, biting back a scoff. “Don’t got anything to steal. Sandy’s the one with the money. All fifty bucks of it.” 

“It’s more like seventy-five but who’s counting?” Sandy joins in easily, her smile crooked as she wiggles her brows slightly in her cousin’s direction. 

Mickey hates when he doesn’t know what she’s thinking. 

Luckily Sandy doesn’t care to elaborate, too fixed on adding to everything already rolling around in Mickey’s head. 

“ Iggy’ll be back by tonight. Lady at the desk said he told her that we can meet him at some nightclub down the way. Really get to know the nightlife and maybe get the stick out of your ass.” Her mouth is full of toast when she speaks for the second time, crumbs flying as she waves the half-bitten piece around.

Mickey bites his bacon with a crunch. “She didn’t say that.”

“No but maybe she should have.”

The pair of them bicker back and forth as usual and Ian stares at them with this quirk to his lips, a type of fondness in the expression that’s developed quickly and unexpectedly. 

“Am I invited?” Ian quirks a brow, more at Mickey than Sandy. Maybe he knows she’ll say yes. Maybe he knows Mickey won’t argue.

“We’re not your keepers, man.”

Sandy interrupts, reaching out to almost jab Mickey with her fork. “What he means is yes.”

Ian finds it comical if his smirk is anything to go by and he shifts back to dig into his front pockets, pulling out a  crumpled-up wad of cash. 

“Does a twenty make you more or less likely to trust me?”

“More.” Sandy points out, plucking the bill from Ian’s hand as she finishes pushing the rest of her toast into her mouth. “And get yourself a new shirt, Mick. Take Ian with you.”

She slides the bill over to Mickey before pushing away from the table, that same stupid look on her face. A look that Mickey can’t read or chooses not to interpret. The girl leaves with only a wave, not saying where she’s going and Mickey knows better than to ask. Folding the bill up, Mickey puts it in the pocket of his jacket and sighs heavily. 

“Guess I’m your keeper now.”

Ian bites down on his lip to keep from smiling, a gesture Mickey misses as he gets up from the table. Much like the night before, he doesn’t tell Ian to follow and uses the sound of his footsteps to know that he’s behind him. They’re not friends, they barely know each other but Ian takes Sandy’s word for gold, takes what she says as law. 

That has to be why he follows Mickey like it’s his job, without realizing that he’s not tied to them.

Or maybe he gets sick enjoyment from getting on Mickey’s nerves. It feels like one giant inside joke at his expense. It wouldn’t be the first time, especially not with Sandy, but it was the first time he couldn’t find the punchline. The two of them walk together in silence through the familiar corridors of the hotel room, taking twists and turns through to get back to the lobby.

“You got nothing better to do?” Mickey breaks the silence first, unable to stop himself from asking an obvious question. 

“Not really. I’ve never been to Vegas and something tells me it’s not as fun to go out on your own.” 

Mickey doesn’t mention that Ian was hardly on his own last night, the flashbacks of his hands on a man’s body running circles in his brain. His mouth goes dry for a moment as he takes the turn into the gift shop, the place already bustling with people even in the early hours of the day. In the background, the sounds of hard rock and coins dropping into hopelessly empty buckets fill his ears. The generation of a quick buck and excess.

In between the bodies, Mickey finds a row of slightly less embarrassing shirts and heads for the rack while Ian stops at a stand of keychains right beside him, turning it round and round. 

“They have Ian. No Mickey,” Ian points out and holds up a keychain of the Stardust with ‘Ian’ spelled out in fancy gold lettering underneath it. 

Mickey can’t tell what’s funnier – the stupid keychain or the fact that Ian keeps trying when Mickey gives him nothing to go on.

“What a fucking shame.”

Ian twirls the keychain around his finger, moving away from the stand over to where Mickey is still thumbing through shirts. He circles him, playing with the hangers as he goes.

“This thing with you and your brother, feels kind of like you’re looking for the godfather or something.”

Mickey grabs one of the shirts, giving Ian a sideways glance of confusion. “The what?”

“...You haven't seen The Godfather?”

The disbelief isn’t shocking, most things haven’t been filled in for Mickey. Ian’s reality hasn’t become Mickey’s yet. 

“No.”

Ian lets out a puff of breath, lighthearted and airy. “Where have you been? Under a rock?”

“Gone.”

Mickey shrugs, yanking the shirt off the hanger and taking it with him toward the counter. He doesn’t like all the people, the sensation of their eyes on him. Ian flourishes in it or seems to given how little affects him. He keeps pace with Mickey, the damn keychain jingling at his side. No one probably ever taught him the definition of knowing when to quit.

“Gone where?” Ian asks as they stop at the counter, the woman behind it looking between them with a curious eye. Mickey sets the items down, reaching for Ian’s hand to grab the keychain, if only so he’ll stop with the jingling. 

“Just gone.”

The tone Mickey usually uses makes people back off, give him a scowl or a ‘fuck you’, run away with their tail between their legs. Usually they know to leave him alone. Apparently, no one taught Ian Gallagher how to read a room either. The other man puts his hands up as a makeshift white flag but instead of backing off, reaches into his pocket for the same wad of cash he showed off around Sandy. 

“Okay, at least let me help out. Especially since I didn’t tell you until now that your jacket has a hole in it.” 

The comment confuses Mickey for a second until realization hits, his mouth falling open. Ian, of course, finds it funny while Mickey winds a hand behind his back to feel the gaping hole right under his right armpit. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles under his breath, following it with a string of nearly silent curses and a chuckle of disbelief. 

Mickey’s own damn fault, really. The jacket was left to sit in storage for seven years, gaining years of wear and tear in a cardboard box. 

Ian hears Mickey’s laugh and finds it contagious, a soft one of his own coming out. The two find themselves laughing together for the second time in two days and it’s quite possibly a record for Mickey, though not necessarily a good thing. It’s merely a hint of a laugh, a whisper of one and Mickey shuts it down before it gets too friendly. Not that Ian minds, practically preening as he puts a hand on Mickey’s shoulder to guide him away from the counter - the bag looped around his elbow. “Look, you can have my old jacket. Might be kind of big on you but it’ll work ‘til you get another one. If you like it, maybe we can call a truce here.”

Mickey shrugs off the hand though he doesn’t snap on Ian. He considers it, considers how much easier it might be if he wasn’t such an asshole - if he just let things happen. But he doesn’t know Ian, still isn’t sure if he even wants to. The amount of trust Mickey dishes out was offloaded on Sandy years ago and he’s never stockpiled any more. 

“I’m not keeping it. Just wearing it to get Sandy off my back.”

Ian nods, nearly hip to hip with Mickey as they walk out together. Everything about him reads comfortable and Mickey can’t help but wonder where he gets it from. 

“Who said I was going to let you keep it? You can give it back to me when the trip’s done.”

They fall into silence again as they walk back to the hotel room, Ian sliding the key out of his back pocket. He brushes past Mickey to unlock the door, holding it open with one arm over his head. It has to be the first time someone’s held a door open for Mickey, a normal thing for anyone else and yet another new thing to add to his list. 

Mickey moves past Ian, taking off his jacket as he goes. He hears the fabric continue to rip as it slides it off his arms and he involuntarily groans, tossing the useless article off to the side. Ian stands just by the bathroom and flings the bag to land square on Mickey’s mattress, the shirt billowing out of it. Mickey mutters a ‘thanks’ and looks back toward him but Ian is already sliding off his shirt, catching him off guard. He doesn’t look away immediately, not when he catches the dark bruising on Ian’s neck, just below where the collar of any shirt would hit. The sight makes him swallow thickly, turning back to yank his new shirt’s tag off in one go. 

Mickey can’t see him but he hears Ian rummaging in his bag, the sound of his feet brushing up against the carpet. A second later and a worn black leather jacket is tossed on the mattress.

“Like I said, it might be too big but it’s all yours.” Ian leaves it at that, wordlessly stepping back into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. 

It’s just a jacket but Mickey can’t seem to pick it up right away, changing into his new shirt before even acknowledging it. When he does pick it up though, Mickey can tell it's real leather by the weight, the fabric weighty in his palms. It’s almost enough to impress him. Stepping over to a mirror situated near the front door, Mickey slides it on and he understands what Ian meant about it being too big. 

The stupid sleeves cover the tattoos on his knuckles, the middle makes him look bulkier than usual, but it makes Mickey look more like himself, more like the person he remembers being. Maybe the only downside though, is that when he puts it on - it still smells like Ian. Mickey considers taking it off, buying one of his own but after ten minutes of still wearing it, he almost forgets about it entirely.

What does is it matter anyway? It’s only for now. It’s only temporary.

\--

The rest of the day passes in an instant, a view of several new slot machines and Sandy blowing ten bucks being the only things they have to show for it. It’s nearing 10pm when they head out – Sandy managing to find herself a dress for the occasion while Mickey wears Ian’s jacket, telling his cousin with his eyes not to say a damn thing about it. She doesn’t but he can feel her eyes on him, her mind making up things that aren’t there. 

The nightclub turns out to be more chaotic than Mickey was expecting. He formed ideas in his head, thoughts of what places like this would have morphed into over the years but this certainly wasn’t it. What it does look like is a place Iggy would slum around, his brother always being a few screws short of a toolbox. Half of the women in the joint are pressed up against a man or two, while the other half of the male population knock back drinks and snort lines off glass counters like there’s no tomorrow. As if there are no consequences. 

Mickey used to be like them. Sandy too. A long-forgotten pastime when the drugs didn’t stop their lives from being shit. Regardless, Sandy is instantly invigorated by the scene, one hand clutching onto Mickey’s arm. “Mickey, you have to dance with me, come on. How long has it been?”

Too long. Maybe not long enough. 

“You know damn well I don’t dance and we’re supposed to be finding Iggy, remember that?”

Sandy shakes her head, ruffling Mickey’s hair affectionately as she ignores his question. “You’re not getting out of it, assface but I’ll steal Ian until then. How about it?”

She motions to Ian, already reaching out to get her claws in him. Ian appears to be in awe, his skin practically glowing under the shifting lights. He looks younger, brand new to the world around him.

“Yeah. Yeah, why not?” The much taller man bows down to her in some kind of cutesy way before taking her hand, carefully leading her through the throngs of people already pushing up against one another. 

“Tell me when you’ve found, Iggy. We’ll kick his ass!” Sandy calls out over the commotion, getting lost in the darkness where the lights don’t quite hit. 

Mickey stands there and lets himself become  an observer, the smell of smoke and pot comforting him as his entire being feels out of place. It wasn’t foreign to him, being a spectator to other people’s lives but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. He just never had a choice. From his right side, a waitress steps up to him, her eyes looking him over with that award-winning sort of smile. She moves her tray down and there lies a single glass of whiskey, the convenience making his eyebrows raise. 

“From your brother. Someone will be with you shortly.”

If there was envy in Mickey’s bones before, then it just grew exponentially. Iggy had people. He had a job, money, a fancy roof over his head. Mickey had a shitty apartment waiting for him in Chicago, the promise of a crook parole officer and a couple hundred dollars to buy off brand cheese with. The stench of injustice wasn’t lost on him. He watches the waitress go off, her words still ringing in his head. 

Maybe he should have asked what The Godfather is.

It’s a good twenty minutes and three whiskeys down at the bar before the same girl comes to tap Mickey on the shoulder. 

“He’s ready for you now.”

It sounds as if he’s won the big ticket, going to see the boss to collect his prize but the sinking feeling in his stomach, tells him that’s far from what he’s about to deal with. He barely remembers Iggy’s face, barely knows how old he is now. All he replays is the hour and a half when his life was taken away from him and handed off to Iggy instead. It’s hard not to resent someone who took everything you were supposed to have. For a brief second, Mickey thinks to get Sandy but this isn’t her fight. 

One of them should be allowed to live. 

The woman leads him to a set of doors in the back and knocks once gently to let them know of their arrival. The footsteps that come up to the door boom loudly and she steps away, a comforting hand on Mickey’s arm briefly before she scurries off. Before Mickey can even breathe, a man about a good foot and a half taller than him swings open the door, holding it steady. He doesn’t speak, barely grunts as he stares Mickey down. 

Mickey takes that as the cue to walk in, tugging on the sleeves of his jacket as he puffs out his chest to make himself seem bigger than he actually is. After prison, Mickey was no stranger to a good fight. No one that anyone wanted to fuck with. His brother was no exception to that rule. There’s only one desk in the dimly lit room, a couple of paintings on the wall but nothing much in the way of décor. It seems set up to intimidate him and it’s working.

Standing behind that only desk is Iggy and if Mickey was younger, the temptation to punch his smug face would have been harder to quell. He’s not that kid though and he closes in, eyes locked on his – stone cold and bitter. It's better than anger and the best he can offer. 

“Iggy,” he manages with a hoarse tone, the name foreign on his tongue and sour to the taste.

Iggy gives him about the same in return. “Mickey.” 

The brothers stare at each other, take in the changes in the other’s demeanor. Iggy was always older but the years hadn’t done him any favors. The city wore him in, made him wind battered and weathered but well off just the same. Mickey was torn and tattered from years on the inside with nothing to show for it. Their dad might have found the whole thing pretty funny, if he could see them now. 

“Not too shabby for a guy fresh out of prison. How -”

Mickey clicks his tongue and puts his palm flat on the wood, leaning in to his older brother with daggers for a stare. They used to play this game but it’s not that easy anymore. 

“Where is it, Iggy?”

“Where’s what?”

Mickey bares his teeth, the anger lashing out of him like flames flickering off his skin. “Don’t play fucking coy. The money.”

The money. His life. The only future he has. That money.

The silence is deafening and the lack of words, is really the only answer Mickey needs. It’s all come full circle, exactly what he predicted. He might as well call himself a knife block for all the times he’s been stabbed in the back – his family wielding most of them. 

“I don’t have it.”

“You don’t have it? Okay.” Mickey scoffs in disbelief, running a thumb over his bottom lip as he tries not to snarl. He pauses to think, his words rattling hard against his skull in an attempt to not lash out. “The only reason I got sent to prison was for your sorry ass and you don’t have it.”

“It’s not up to me, Mickey.” Iggy pleads with him and he almost sounds convincing. He adds the perfect break to his voice but his eyes look far past Mickey’s right shoulder. Classic Milkovich tactic. Make them believe you. Make them think you’re on their side. Funny how it doesn’t work within your own family. 

“Right. Okay. Not like I’ve been waiting seven years or anything.”

As Mickey threatens to spit more venom at his brother, a woman comes out of the woodwork. It’s ominous, the way she appears out of the looming darkness in the back of the room. Her face is barely lit when she comes into frame but she’s beautiful, even Mickey won’t deny her that. Her brown hair is cropped short at her shoulders, her lips lined with a deep shade of scarlet, and her body encased in a  jet-black dress. 

Something about her presence makes Mickey shut up but also angers him. Her face is familiar but he can’t say he recognizes her. No matter which way Mickey slices it, the only answer he can come up with is: boss. She’s the boss. Iggy steps aside for her so she faces Mickey directly, an overly pleasant and manufactured look about her. She doesn’t reach out a hand to shake his, no formalities about her. 

“Svetlana.” Her accent is thick and deep for a woman, sultry in a way that Mickey finds both intimidating and admirable. “Iggy says you think we owe you money.”

Mickey pulls back from the table but only slightly, arms crossing over his chest. “Yeah ‘cause he does.”

“I think you misunderstand. You run drugs before prison, yes?”

Mickey’s eyes shift to the right, boring his stare right into Iggy – the coward keeping his eyes down on the ground like a scolded puppy. None of this is a shock to Mickey but the weight of it still crushes him the same way.

“Yeah and?”

Svetlana sucks on her teeth, clearly trying to mask her annoyance with the same empty pleasantries. “You run those drugs for my father, who is now dead. You run business into ground when you get caught. We lose a lot of money. I take money you make, pay back debt. You keep all of your fingers. I think it is good deal.”

The realization hits Mickey like a freight train, all at once and hard enough to knock the breath out of his body. Most people work for the Cartel, for the Italians, but Mickey and his family had to go and work for the goddamn Russians. The Russian Mafia that he thought he left behind in that desert seven years ago. Suddenly he isn’t as brave, his words lacking the bite he wanted. 

“I’m not the one who did it.”

The woman scoffs and leans over the side of the table, one manicured finger poking Mickey’s in the chest. “No but you go to court. Take fall. We consider that guilt in my country.” Her tone is still pointed but she smiles, piercing eyes knocking Mickey down farther. “- But you don’t like, we make new deal.”

“Like what?” Mickey asks hesitantly, his lips set into a straight line. 

“Good that you ask.” 

Svetlana motions for Iggy to bring something out from underneath the desk, a tightly wrapped package that he hands off to her. She slaps it down on the table with a heavy thud, her fingers curling around it protectively. 

“You run bag to Chicago. Drop off, we give you money.”

Eyeing the package, Mickey’s memory of the drug trade comes flooding back. Prices couldn’t have changed all that much and by the looks of it, the amount would rake in a big load. He hates how he considers it, the thought of the money too good to silence him – to get him to turn away from it.

“How much?” He can’t help but ask, the question a default when he’s presented with the goods. 

Svetlana pauses, straightening back up as she appears to rattle numbers around in her head. “$2,000.”

“You think I’m putting my ass on the line for a couple grand? I had ten,” Mickey bites back at her.

It was then that Svetlana got quiet, pulling the bag back slowly. Mickey can tell where she gets it from. Her father was a nasty old bastard, all scars and cigars. He never took any of Mickey’s shit, didn’t even take his own dad’s shit and that was saying a lot. “You take bag or you go back to prison. Fine by me,” she tells him, not blinking as she taps her heel on the hardwood floor. 

It’s a scare tactic. The one thing that struck fear into Mickey. 

“You wouldn’t.”

The woman snaps a finger in Iggy’s face, grabbing his attention. “I will. Is that not right, Iggy?”

And Mickey watches as his brother folds, crumbles under the pressure. He never had the same backbone as Mickey, having been broken ages before Mickey ever came close. 

“Take the deal, Mickey. Save yourself the trouble,” he pleads with him again, more convincingly this time. 

Just the thought of Iggy knowing this would happen and not warning Sandy, makes him sick. Family was meant to be sacred, no matter how shitty and unforgiving it was. Family was all anyone had. It was all Mickey left prison knowing he had but – what was one more loss? Seven years of prison. A lifetime of nothing and no one. Exactly how he imagined it. 

“So much for family, huh? After the shit I did for you.”

Iggy groans, throwing his hands up in his own defense. “Sorry, Mick. It’s business.”

“Business, my ass.” Mickey growls at him while Svetlana steps away from the table.

“You give me answer tomorrow before you leave,” she tells Mickey with a short lift to her voice, her heels retreating the only sound in the room for a good minute.

There’s nothing left to say. Not when the answers are stuffed into his throat, making him suffocate on his own heavy dose of reality. He thinks about how lucky Sandy is. How jaded she has yet to become. She doesn’t know fully what it means to be let down by your own. Her pain is in what others never gave her; Mickey’s pain is in what he let others get out of him. 

“Mick-” Iggy starts again, his hands finding their way to his pockets as if to hide his shame.

“Fuck you, Iggy,” he spits venomously, knocking into the table with his body with enough force that it almost pushes it to the ground. He leaves Iggy standing there, bewildered and hanging his head.

Fuck him. Fuck his family.

Mickey storms back into the room, colliding with a handful of partygoers. Their bare skin touches his body and he can sense the electricity pumping through him. Every nerve ending is burning, feels like lightning coursing through his veins. Venom threatens to spill out of his mouth but he soothes the bubbling by snatching a drink off a wandering waitress’ tray. He doesn’t care what it is and downs it in one go. If it’s at all possible, this burns more than the first time. When he was carted off in the back of a police car with Iggy’s form retreating in the far distance of the desert. 

Maybe betrayal consumes him more when there’s no hiding from it.

Finding a spot at a nearby table, Mickey manages to sit down without slamming his glass into the table and merely grips it so tightly that his knuckles turn a pale shade of white. He thinks about going to get Sandy, telling her that the fun is over. He’d rather be at home than have to deal with this shit but he sees her a few feet away at best, still moving in circles with Ian in tow. For years, Mickey wished he knew what it was like to be a free man, do whatever he pleased but even now with no chains on his body, he can’t find it in him to be like them. He’ll never be  _ anything _ like them. 

His fingers play with the rim of the glass as he watches Ian twirl Sandy, their hips moving along to the song – another one he’s never heard before. 

_ Do a little dance. Make a little love. Get down tonight. _

Ian is perfectly in sync with the rest of the club, thrumming right along with the beat like he was born for it. There’s something in the movement that keeps Mickey mesmerized, keeps him from getting up to ask for more whiskey. He’s never seen a man move the way Ian does, never seen skin glitter the way his does. It’s past his realm of understanding, past anything he’s ever known. His teeth drag along his bottom lip, completely unaware of anything around him – his vision narrowed in.

“Not bad.” A voice comments from his side as the woman from minutes earlier, Svetlana, invades his space, leaning on the spot next to his. It bursts his bubble, brings him back to reality but he can’t be mad at her. For her, it is business. From a quick glance, Mickey sees that she has a thin cigarette dangling from her lips, hears her red nails clacking on the hard wood of the table. “That one must be yours,” she says as she vaguely gestures to Sandy and Ian out on the floor. 

Mickey keeps his gaze where it is, wishing his glass was full again to push down the urge to lash out. He can feel his teeth grinding in his mouth but he was never great at keeping his mouth shut. More so when the sound of the Russian’s voice already makes his head ache.

“She’s my cousin,” he replies with a dry delivery, his voice barely able to get words out.

The woman actually chuckles at that, blowing her smoke just above Mickey’s head. Her face is unreadable, just the very edge of her red lips turned up. “Wasn’t talking about her.” 

Mickey feels her nails crawl along his shoulder as she moves away from him and he can sense her gaze shift from him to the pair on the dance floor, the implication now another thing that hangs over him. His insides start screaming, the nausea rising up into his chest.

_ Well. Shit. _


	5. Bad Moon Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took me absolutely forever but these last two weeks really had me stuck and this chapter just didn't want to come out. the next leg of the trip is upon us though so hopefully I'll have the next one out much sooner.
> 
> as always thank you to my lovely friends: [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse/works) and [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor/works) for helping with this chapter and shoutout to everyone on the the shameless discord for hyping me up, i love all of you!
> 
> also shoutout to [vic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredavatar/works)and [fiona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightninghaski/works), who have beautiful fics that you should check out!

Sandy was always more like Mickey’s sister than his cousin.

At first, Sandy moving in with the family was against Mickey’s will, loathing the idea of another girl tagging along with him when Mandy was already a handful. But as she got older, Sandy proved that she was cracker jack smart, sharp tongued, witty, and - brave in ways that his brothers weren’t. She kept up with him when they went toe to toe, didn’t take any of their shit, and had a perfect shot to boot. It was different with her than it was with Mandy. Mickey cared about Mandy, she was his sister, but Sandy - Mickey was pretty sure he’d do anything for Sandy.

Because somewhere down the line, Sandy went from being just his cousin to being his best friend. The only friend Mickey had.

She was only fourteen when Mickey got arrested and needless to say, the guilt of that alone weighed down on Mickey over the years. Sandy was too young to be involved in his shit, too young to handle his dad on her own, too young to be trekking out to California to see him. She used to tell him it was nothing — school wasn’t important anyway — but Sandy was better than the rest of them. Sure, she was a Milkovich, got sent to juvie a handful of times, but she still had a heart when Mickey was sure he’d lost his years ago. 

Now that he was out, Mickey really only had one question when it came to Sandy - how do you make it up to the person who didn’t let you fade away? 

After Svetlana leaves him, Mickey goes blank. All the thoughts wipe themselves from his mind as he digs his fingers into the fabric of his jeans, clawing at the uneasy feeling under his skin. Sandy and Ian have long since left his line of sight, buried among the sweating bodies but Mickey can’t find the energy to follow in their wake. 

Svetlana was full of shit, talking out of her ass to try and intimidate Mickey. That’s all it was. But to Mickey, to the world around him - just the insinuation is worse than death.

Time passes like a blur, another drink emptied into his gullet and it burns on its way down, pushing back the bile that’s threatening to bubble up. Mickey’s almost numb to it now, distracting himself with the cool water droplets sliding along the glass and down his fingers. The stupor is bone deep but a firm hand on his shoulder jolts him, his body turning abruptly to grab the wrist of whoever’s dared to touch him.

“Shit, sorry. It’s just me.” It’s Ian’s voice, crystal clear over the noise. The haze has Mickey’s head reeling but he can see Ian’s eyes are slightly bloodshot, buzzed but not drunk and he notes the worry that’s creasing the other man’s forehead. Mickey looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to actually speak with some sense instead of staring holes into him. Ian seems to take the hint, running a hand through his hair once Mickey’s released his wrist. “It’s Sandy. I think she took something.” 

Mickey’s lack of reaction is probably jarring to Ian but he doesn’t know. “Great.” Mickey mutters in a half grumble. He sold the drugs but Sandy was always more in favor of taking them. “Where is she?”

Ian nods and Mickey leaves behind his empty whiskey glass to follow him through the consistently packed club. The stench of sick and desperation fills his nostrils the closer they get. People are carried out of the bathrooms, their clothes mussed and the life in their eyes slowly draining out. He remembers it too well from his regulars, people that used the drugs to fill whatever void lingered in their system. 

Pushing through the hall, Ian stops at a crumpled up form on the ground - a shape that somewhat resembles Sandy, though sorely less put together than she was an hour ago. The sound of their footsteps must have stirred her as she rolls her head back and gazes up at them with an uncharacteristically beaming smile. 

“Mickey! Mickey, Mickey. Ian told me to sit here and wait for you but that’s so  _ boring _ .” Her words are coming out fast and slurred, her hands waving in tune to the beat of the music. 

Mickey sees it in her eyes - the bubbling over of excitement, the shaking hands, the overall jitteriness that radiates off her body. He sighs heavily, waving Ian over with one hand while the other grips Sandy’s bicep to hold her up. 

“Now I gotta babysit your ass, huh?” Mickey says under his breath to his high as fuck cousin, the two men helping her to her feet. “Just get her on my back. I got it,” he tells Ian quickly, wanting to get Sandy out of the cramped space and the encroaching presence of the other party goers. 

Ian seems reluctant for a moment but relents just the same, guiding Sandy’s arms to loop around Mickey’s neck. She’s very nearly Mickey’s exact height but years of solely working out, has him hoisting her up easily - his fingers hooking behind her knees. A grunt leaves Mickey’s lips as he gets her higher up on his back, causing Sandy to break out into a fit of giggles. 

“Shit, remember you - wait no,” Sandy runs her mouth off at a mile a minute, her hand flexing in the air as she lets go of Mickey briefly to wave at Ian, who is flanking their way through the crowd. “Mickey used to give me piggy backs rides all the time to make me feel better. Not Mandy though.” She pauses, her motions making Mickey wobble as he gets out of the hall and back onto the main floor. “Sandy. Mandy. Our parents weren’t really creative.”

Mickey groans as he leaves space for Ian to get around him, pulling the key out of his pocket and waving it at the other. “You go ahead. She’s staying with us, can’t trust her alone right now.” 

“You sure?” Ian asks though it seems like he knows that might be a stupid question.

“My cousin. My problem.”

There’s not much Ian can do but nod, contemplative as he stares down at the keys momentarily before meeting Mickey’s hard gaze again. The way Ian’s staring him down, makes Mickey shift a bit uncomfortably - unable to shake the odd feeling that Ian can sense something’s off. There’s a small blessing in the fact that he doesn’t mention it though, just pockets the keys and starts on ahead. 

“I’ll stay within ear shot at least. If you need me,” Ian adds, a half smile over his shoulder as he disappears ahead of them into the foggy foreground. 

“I like him,” Sandy muses next to Mickey’s ear, making his face turn even more sour.

A grumble is all he manages at first as he pushes through the crowd, already having lost Ian up ahead. “Yeah, bet you do.” 

With the drugs pumping through her system, Sandy’s words roll off her tongue with no regard or at least very little of it. “Is it because he’s gay?” She says almost too loudly, almost too easily like it’s just another trait - as simple to rattle off as Ian’s eye color. 

Mickey nearly trips over his own two feet at his cousin’s words, choking on air like he’s been punched in the stomach.The music around them drowns out Sandy’s slurring from the other patrons but he’s not nearly as fortunate. There’s no stifling the crawl up his spine at the last word, the syllable hanging over his head. It blends with Svetlana’s words from earlier, the sensation of her fingernails on his back still making goosebumps dot along his arms.

_ I wasn’t talking about her.  _

Mickey’s grip tightens on Sandy, causing her to whine and pull on the hair at the back of his head with a stronger yank than maybe she intended. 

“Sandy, the fuck - come on!”

“Carry me like you care, clown,” she laughs wholeheartedly, her tangled locks brushing against Mickey’s cheek. 

For a very brief second, he debates on whether or not to drop her but this is Sandy and whether he likes it or not, there’s no such thing as leaving her behind. He lugs Sandy all the way through the club, nodding at the bouncer at the front door. The man’s likely seen far worse in his days - a girl being carried home wasn’t exactly cause for much alarm but Mickey plays it cool anyway. He knows better than anyone that drugs only cause problems. 

Compared to the overpacked club, outside it’s nearly empty. There are a few cars littering the parking lot, some wanderers smoking and a few others passed out on the street in the fetal position. It’s a far cry from the perfect facade the city tries to create, the glitter of money, the glitz of power. At least in prison, Mickey knew where he slotted into the hierarchy but in the real world, men like Mickey would always be bottom feeders, taking scraps just to survive. 

Stepping over a rather large drunken hobo, Mickey drags his feet a couple of blocks back to the Stardust. The walk back seems ten times longer than it did when they left but he blames that on the one hundred and ten pounds he’s lugging on his back that won’t shut up. The Stardust comes into view after another couple of minutes, the lobby bustling even more than it had been their first night. 

Eyes are on them as they enter, the sight more out of place here than it was back at the club. It takes some maneuvering and Sandy nearly falling back on her ass for them to get through to the rooms, clouds of smoke guiding their way. A flash of red hair shows up in Mickey’s peripheral and he breathes a sigh of relief, setting Sandy down on her feet once they get into the hotel hallway. 

“Should have made you promise me not to take anything,” he tells her as one hand loops around her waist to keep her upright.

Her eyes peer everywhere but at him, too fascinated with the light fixtures than anything Mickey has to say. “Aww come on, it’s a party. We’re supposed to have fun.”

If losing ten thousand dollars is fun then yes, Mickey is having the time of his life. Realistically, he knows he should tell her, explain the situation with Iggy but knowing his cousin, her reaction could very easily lean more irrational than his own. It’s not the right time. Hell, he doesn’t even know what he’s going to do come morning but involving Sandy in it is very low on his list. 

They pass by rooms with the same amount of racket and partying going on inside of them, guitar strings and clashing heard through paper thin doors. The allure is hard to ignore, a phermonal scent to give in but Mickey is at least parallel to the straight and narrow, spectating on a normal life. Coming up on their hotel room, Mickey sees Ian pacing back and forth in front of the door with the keys jingling in his open palm. 

“I was about to come looking for you,” Ian starts once he spots the pair, more cheerful than Mickey expected. He’s clearly been drinking but he’s got his bearings about him so Mickey ignores the way the alcohol rolls off both of them with every breath. 

“Just open the door,” Mickey huffs at him and Ian chuckles, shaking his head as he opens the door and pushes it open enough for Mickey to drag Sandy through it. 

The woman is still breaking into fits of giggles every few seconds, her hands sliding along the walls and leaving finger marks in their wake. “Is it sleep time?” She asks as Mickey gets her to lay back on his bed, his brotherly instincts kicking in as he props a pillow under her head. 

“Yeah, you’re gonna sleep it off and I’ll tell you how stupid you are in the morning.” 

“Mmmkay.” She curls up on herself without saying much else and Mickey’s lips quirk slightly before moving down to get her shoes off, tossing them on the ground next to the bed. 

Mickey almost forgets there’s another person in the room until Ian’s speaking to him, an obvious lift to this tone that wasn’t there before. “You’re sweet to her,” he tells Mickey, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed and a silly little grin on his face. 

“She’s my cousin.” Mickey makes light of it as he gets up, moving to take off Ian’s jacket and dropping it on the edge of the bed that Sandy’s not occupying. 

Ian bites on his bottom lip, taking the pause to go over to his own side of the room. He kicks off his shoes but Mickey can feel that Ian’s still looking at him from the corner of his eye. Ian waits until he’s tugging back the sheets of the bed to speak, nonchalant with his compliment. “I know but still - it’s sweet.”

“Sure.”

Mickey is noncommittal as always but something about his tone is verbally keeping Ian on a short leash. He doesn’t need Ian’s approval or his friendship or anything, really. What he needs is for him to keep his distance. 

He needs Ian to just stay away.

As Mickey heads to close the shade, Sandy rolls over in bed enough to where she’s square in the middle of the bed, her small body still managing to take up space on both sides. It feels like the universe giving him a big ‘fuck you’, god’s middle finger taunting him from the sky. He doesn’t have the heart to move her but he mentally adds to the list of things that have gone wrong in the last two days. 

From where he’s seated on the opposite bed, Ian chuckles softly and he raises a brow in Mickey’s direction. “Looks like you’re out of a bed.” 

Mickey fixes him with a glare as he reaches over and snatches the second pillow off Ian’s bed. “Shut up,” he snarls at him, tossing the pillow on the ground by the television. 

“Wait.” 

He speaks the second Mickey starts to kneel down, the word making Mickey glance up but only to yank a loose bed sheet off the mattress for good measure. “What?”

Ian’s still wearing his clothes from their night out but the way his fingers are clutching the edge of the sheet, the softness in his expression, makes him look innocent. “Could share with me. Let Sandy get some rest without breaking your back down there.”

The gut punch reaction is to scoff, Mickey finding it to be more of a joke than anything. There’s no way Ian’s serious even if he’s looking at him with some stupid puppy dog eyes - a reluctance in them that he hasn’t ever seen. The two of them are perfect strangers and yet Ian extends the olive branch when Mickey has given nothing but reasons to keep it to himself. 

Mickey doesn’t trust Ian but he can see why people would. 

He swallows back any attempt at a response, sliding off his own shoes and getting out of his pants so he’s only in his boxers. It’s probably his imagination when he feels Ian’s eyes still on him because when he looks back, Ian’s already changed out of his clothes and tucked back into the bed. The space to the left of him is left empty, a section large enough for another body and Mickey can’t stop the lump that buries itself deep in his throat. 

Ian blinks once and slides back until his head drops back on the pillow, the sheet tucked around his midsection. “Is that a no?” It’s almost taunting, a jest between friends. Two things Mickey wants nothing to do with. 

“What the fuck do you think?” Mickey grumbles as he gets down on the floor, lying flat on his back as he stares up at the cracks in the ceiling. He wonders how much it might take for the roof to cave in on him, put him out of his misery in some random act of god. 

“Suit yourself.” 

Neither man says anything else and the room goes quiet as Ian flicks off the lamp perched on the table between the two beds. The darkness engulfs the room, though the shade shows the flicker bright lights outside, the world past their window still alive and hungry. It all feels too familiar - the white noise deafening even when it mixes with Sandy’s gentle snores and the occasional honking of a horn outside. He can hear swearing through the walls, a dull thumping of a song he actually knows. 

_ Oh don't go 'round tonight. It's bound to take your life. There's a bad moon on the rise. _

\--

Mornings never come easily to Mickey. They’re always more of a power struggle than anything remotely serene. Birds chirping, comforting blankets, or the smell of pancakes and coffee were never part of his day to day routine. He’s used to waking up to screaming, a rough shake of the shoulder, a punch to the face. 

Today appears to be no different. 

Something rough smacks Mickey in the forehead and he’s upright in a matter of seconds, picking up the offensive object and throwing it back at whatever invisible force is against him this time. He’s barely conscious but he recognizes Sandy’s offensive cackle, clearly back to normal from the night before. 

“Jesus Christ.” Mickey rubs at his eyes, his dark hair sticking up in the back from his uncomfortable position on the floor. He narrows in on what hit him, spying the worn out bible laying by his feet and his eyes nearly pop out from how hard they roll into the back of his head. 

“Ironic, huh?” Sandy is far more chipper than she should but that’s the Milkovich blood. They were like cockroaches, they never died. She’s already halfway dressed, perched on the edge of the bed and peering down at her weary cousin. “Ian went to go check us out,” she tells him without Mickey even prompting her. 

Mickey scrubs his eyes like always, kicking off the blankets so they lay in a heap just under the bed.“Like I give a shit,” he tells her, his vocal cords straining from the lack of proper sleep and cigarette smoke that likely lingered in his lungs. Mickey’s muscles feel tense, rigid and he blames the hardwood, not the events of the night prior that refuse to leave his short term memory.

“What happened last night?”

Mickey leaves the question hanging there as he gets up, rummaging around for his discarded clothes with the realization that a few more days like this and the stench of prison might never leave him if he doesn’t get anything else to wear. He snatches Ian’s jacket off of the bed and Sandy bores her eyes into him, attempting to read his expression. 

He stalls, pretending to be more occupied with his soiled jeans than her until she clears her throat in the same way his mother used to do. The kind of sound that meant she was only aiming to ask again. “Your ass took ecstasy, that’s what.”

The woman sneers, sitting up so she’s balanced on her knees and closer into Mickey’s space. “No, I know that. I mean with Iggy.” She adds emphasis to Iggy’s name, craning her neck as Mickey avoids eye contact. “Did you get the money?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells her with no inflection to his tone, nothing to give him away.

Before she can ask anything else, Mickey gathers his bundle of clothes and makes a sharp movement to the bathroom. From behind him, he hears Sandy call out a sharp  _ ‘you - hey!’  _ and while maybe he’d feel guilty at any other point in time, Mickey knew this time was different. 

What Sandy didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. 

Ian comes back from reception ten minutes later to a nearly dead silent room. Sandy’s glowering in her corner, feverishly digging around in her bag for her keys while Mickey smokes in the corner, only glancing sideways at Ian’s entrance. 

“Um, we’re good to go.” Ian starts, shifting from foot to foot as he ends up the freakishly tall block between two bickering siblings. “They said the room’s covered.”

“Great.” 

Sandy tosses some trash on the bed that collected in her bag and gets up, pushing past Ian to stomp her way down the hall. The man stands there, bewildered and looks to Mickey for some kind of clarification. 

“Don’t ask,” Mickey says as he picks up his own items, throwing his bag over his left shoulder so the two of them can follow after the annoyed brunette. 

“Wasn’t gonna.”

\--

The Las Vegas sun burns down on Mickey as they gather outside, the rays charring his outside while his own inner turmoil smokes out his insides. Sandy isn’t giving up, something about the sunshine making her air all her grievances in front of passersby instead of in private.

“I can’t believe you.” Sandy comes at Mickey with both hands pushing at his chest, a fist colliding in the same spot a second later. “What? You don’t trust me or something?”

It sounds like an accusation but it feels like a spit in the face because Sandy knows better, they both know better than to say shit like that. “Did I say that?” He bites back roughly, spitting once on the ground out of spite. 

“Then tell me! What the hell’s going on?”

Both Milkovichs wave hands and exchange intense glares like it’s their job. It feels like they’re back at home, arguing over something Sandy didn’t understand - all those times she wanted to go on jobs with Mickey and his brothers but was never allowed to. Ian’s just a bystander, a casualty to the insanity that is their family. It’s still shocking to Mickey that he hasn’t run. 

“I can’t,” Mickey pleads with her, not as calm or collected but the notion is still there and laced into the way his brow creases, showing off the years that wore him down. 

“Oh, you can’t? But I can cart you around and take you all the way back to Chicago, right? You’re such a prick.” A growl escapes Sandy’s mouth and she balls up her fist at her side, seemingly ready to launch. 

“Sandy, fuck off for once.” Mickey snapping at her isn’t a common occurrence but his fear is unrelenting, making every intake of breath feel like he’s swallowed an inferno that nothing can tame. 

Sandy stands there, the fury slightly diminished just from the strength of Mickey’s words and she’s instantly younger - her few years betraying her. A flash of hurt flickers in her eyes and she glides past Mickey, grabbing Ian by the collar to tug him away in the opposite direction toward the car. Poor guy stumbles over his giant feet, a puppet under Sandy’s grip. 

Mickey closes his eyes and runs his fingers over his brows in an attempt to quell the dull ache that thrums behind his vision. He can’t explain it to her, not yet, but he doesn’t expect her to understand. 

They’re not supposed to lie to each other. 

Mickey lets them go, watching as dirt kicks up as Sandy stomps off toward the car. He exhales sharply and turns to go back inside, pulling a cigarette from the inside of Ian’s jacket pocket. He knows the man told him to keep it but it still feels like his, hasn’t settled enough to be Mickey’s. As he pulls out the lighter and brings it to the tip of his cigarette, the man at the front opens the door for him and Mickey briefly forgets that he’s opening the door to a dead end. 

Because no matter how Mickey slices it, plays it over in his head - the maze he’s created for himself only leads back to the beginning. He walks toward the back room where he first met Svetlana and he already knows what he’s going to do. 

Walk back into the maze. 

Because trying to find the ending was better than waiting for the end to come to him. 

The room is much like it was before, if only for a small stream of light peeking in from a window at the back right of the room. Svetlana is poised at the table from before, her long legs crossed as she sits back on an imposing leather chair. It all feels intended to intimate him even further but what Mickey has built up in his head is worse than any of this. 

“Where’s Iggy?” Mickey asks without meaning to. It’s the first question out of his mouth, call it a reflex that he hasn’t shaken yet. 

Svetlana smiles in that restrained way, the same bright red nails trailing along the detailing of the wood. She keeps her eyes cast down, amused by her power. “He chooses not to come. We do business, me and you.” Mickey hates that she radiates a strength that combats his so well, another female to add to the list of ones that never take any of his shit. Svetlana gets straight to the point, her manicured hand reaching out of sight for the same bundle Mickey saw before.“Do you say yes to deal or do you miss big prison cell?”

Mickey steps up to the desk, palm flat on the wood and his fingers brush up against the side of the bundle as he leans forward. “I wanna know the terms first. Flat out.”

The same annoying click of her tongue comes back and she straightens to rest against the leather chair. “You take bag, you drive away with bag. You take bag to drop off point and you get the money. Is not rocket science,” she speaks in that overly demeaning tone, like Mickey is the scum on her designer heel. 

Mickey grinds his teeth together in an attempt to calm himself. He’s not used to people talking like they know him, like they know his weaknesses. “Where’s the drop off point?”

“Chicago.” 

“I got that but where?” Mickey holds his breath so he doesn’t yell at the women, his hand grinding against the table as he curls it into a fist. 

“Warehouse. By the river,” Svetlana tells him as she lifts her hand to inspect her nails, the other pushing the bundle farther into Mickey’s space. The lack of caring is obvious, Mickey’s another pack mule in line for slaughter. “Yes or no?”

An exhale and Mickey noticeably relaxes. “$2,000.”

“Yes, $2000. I give you a hundred now to make you feel better,” Svetlana toys with him, slapping a crisp hundred dollar bill on top of the pound of cocaine as if that makes it any less illegal, any less stupid. 

Mickey weighs his options one more time, adding to the thousands of scenarios he played out in his head over the last sleepless night. He knows what this is - a game. Svetlana’s the cat and Mickey is the mouse she’s determined to keep under her paw. If he never puts an end to it, they’ll come after him. 

They came after him after seven years. 

“And I’m out. I’m done.”

Svetlana has the audacity to chuckle at him, batting her eyelashes at him like she’s staring up at a child. “If you say so.” She pushes the bundle again and Mickey grabs it with a sneer, stuffing it into the knapsack still over his shoulder. There’s nothing left to say, preferably he’d rather never speak to the woman again but something tells Mickey this won’t be the last time. The knapsack is only slightly heavier but it’s not the physical weight that bares down on Mickey now as he turns to leave. Svetlana calls out to him one last time, twisting the knife. “Be careful, Mikhailo. You wouldn’t want to get anyone else in trouble.”

Mickey presses his lips together and keeps moving, fingers straining around the strap of his knapsack.  _ Fuck her _ . He didn’t plan on taking anyone down with him, not if he could help it. 

When Mickey gets his bearings and heads back outside, the car is parked in frontwith the engine running. Sandy sits in the driver’s seat, her hands bearing down on the steering wheel like she’s got a grudge against it. Meanwhile, Ian takes up the back seat like some kind of scolded child chewing on his bottom. It would be amusing if Mickey didn’t know exactly why she was pissed. 

He crosses the front of the car to the passenger’s side but Sandy rolls down the window before he’s all the way there. “No, backseat.”

“You’re serious?” 

Her look proves exactly what he fears and she jerks her head, one hand coming off the wheel to pop down the seat so Mickey can climb into the back with Ian. 

In the backseat. With Ian. 

Mickey mutters a string of swears under his breath but stops himself from arguing. There’s no blaming her for the reaction, not when they’re supposed to be in this together. Not when Sandy already knew all the shameful parts of Mickey, to the point that hiding anything else was automatically a betrayal. He crams his body into the space between the seat and door, leaving Ian to scoot over to make space for him - both of their bags creating a barrier between the two of them. 

The weight of the drugs in his knapsack makes Mickey hyper aware of himself and he brings a hand to rest over the worn out fabric, pushing it closer to his body. 

Ian does that stupid thing again, taking side peeks at Mickey like he’s an animal in the zoo. He’s tempted to smack Ian once, get it out of his system, but he’s stopped by Sandy’s intense glares from the rear view mirror. Stone cold gaze just like Mickey’s, just like Terry’s. A gift but also the world’s biggest curse.

They drive for maybe a half hour at best and most of it is spent in silence. Sandy isn’t chattering off like she did on the drive into Vegas, couldn’t give two shits about asking Ian anything about himself. She’s stewing in her own anger, just like Mickey was prone to, casting angry glances at her cousin through the rear view mirror. He’s convinced she’ll throttle him the next moment she gets but as they near the next hour mark, Sandy pipes up. 

“Rest stop. Get out and use the toilet.”

The men in the back seat share a brief look, both of them weary of Sandy but perhaps for different reasons. It’s on the tip of Mickey’s tongue to ask why, maybe start a petty argument in hopes that Sandy will let go of the grudge and just trust him but with the way her brows furrow, it’s looking far less likely that’ll happen. 

Mickey grits his teeth and goes along with it, jerking his head to give Ian the universal signal for ‘don’t fuck with her when she’s like this’. He leaves his bag behind in the car, only pocketing his cigarettes for the time being to give him something to do. 

Sandy takes the keys out of the ignition and slams the door behind her with little more than a grunt offered to Ian or Mickey. She stalks toward one of the nearby benches and parks herself there, twirling the keys round and round one finger. 

It’s only 10am and Mickey feels the migraine vibrating behind his eyes. He takes the walkway up to the restrooms sluggishly while Ian picks up the slack from behind. Pulling the pack from his jacket again, Mickey holds it back toward Ian - a peace offering almost. “It’ll cut the edge off for another few hours of that shit.”

“Thanks,” Ian says gratefully, sliding a cigarette out and lighting it as he finds a spot near a water fountain to stand. “How long should we be pretending to use the bathroom for?”

“I’d give her five. Helps if she thinks we actually listened to her.” 

Ian laughs at that, blowing his smoke off in the opposite direction. The pair stands side by side along the wall, a good five feet between them but Mickey catches the heat radiating off him. 

“I take it the stuff with your brother didn’t go well,” Ian asks tentatively, testing the waters a bit. He must have learned by now that Mickey’s temper is just as volatile as Sandy’s. 

The funniest part is that Mickey doesn’t mind the question, his irritation lying more with himself than either of his companions. He leans his head back until it touches the brick of the building, exhaling softly. 

“You could say that,” he offers up but with no additional details and Ian doesn’t ask for any, absorbing the information quietly. 

The minutes pass by easily, Ian finishing up his cigarette in record time. He lets the tail end of the stick burn from where it's nestled between his fingers, having given up on getting any more hits from it. 

“Guess we should go,” Mickey brushes his fingers over his forehead, the headache subsiding briefly. The gravel scraps under his boots as he heads back the way they came, only idly watching the sun as it rises over the trees.

“Um, Mickey?”

The older man stops short, casting his eyes back to Ian. “What?”

Ian keeps quiet, his eyes blown and his lips slightly part as he points out toward the main road. It confuses Mickey but he eventually follows the guideline, holding one hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. He hears what Ian’s looking at before he sees it. The shine of Sandy’s Camaro catches the light as it tears off out of the lot, screeching rubber against the asphalt. 

It renders Mickey unable to flinch and his feet don’t catch up for a couple of seconds but he’s tearing off down the walkway again, only catching the bumper of the car as it curves out back onto the highway. 

“No fucking way,” he spits breathlessly, his hands coming to cradle the sides of his head to absorb the shock. “No. Fucking. Way.” 

Sandy. 

The drugs. 

The fucking drugs.

“Shit!” 

Mickey knows within a second what Sandy’s done and he hates how smart she is, hates that she’s always one step ahead. She read it all over his face, he should have known. Milkoviches were notoriously good liars but horrible at keeping secrets from their own. In Sandy’s logic, he was better off this way but his body tenses at the fact that he’s stranded with nothing, with Ian Gallagher - a man he only met two whole days ago.

Behind his left shoulder, Ian casts a shadow over him and the bewilderment is shared between the two of them. Mickey can sense Ian’s iitch to ask what they’re supposed to do now and it hangs there, unanswered.

Ian’s just a casualty, along for the ride. 

And here comes the catch 22. Because the option to let his cousin run off with his drugs? Not happening. Leave the kid behind? Maybe but then he takes on the risk of him spilling the beans when the cops come calling about Mickey Milkovich - the guy who left him stranded at a rest stop. Or take Ian with him, get him involved, put the blame on him if things ran too hot and they got caught. 

Prison or freedom? Prison or Ian’s company? Prison or - what?

Mickey stares into the distance, still smelling the tire burn of the Camaro burning in the air. It’s a split second decision, one that he can sense the regret in but what other choice is there? He runs a hand over his face, letting the distress sink in before he addresses Ian. 

“You know how to hotwire a car?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yes, that is the end of Sandy for the time being! she'll be back soon but it's time for the boys to go out on their own. I swear Sandy has a method behind her madness - mostly covering mickey's ass. she's impulsive, what can I say?
> 
> as always you can find me on:  
> tumblr: [xgoldendays](http://xgoldendays.tumblr.com/)  
> twitter:[s11mikhailo](https://twitter.com/s11mikhailo)


	6. Take Me Home, Country Roads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there's no hiding that this one took me much longer than I originally intended but when the writer's block combines with hating everything I put down on paper, three weeks pass by quick. I made it though and it's on my word that this fic isn't dying. every single of word of it is going to get out, it might just take me some time so bear with me!
> 
> as always, thank you so much to [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse), [vic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/floristmick), and [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor) for being the best and helping me when I find it hard to continue. I love you all!

The rumbling of a nearby car engine is the only sound that passes between the men, Mickey’s question looming like a threat - an invitation to give away their freedom. Mickey isn’t in the mindset to start pointing fingers, to treat Ian like he’s as innocent as he seems. He’s Southside. Everyone in the Southside has done something. Still, Mickey refuses to repeat himself because insisting anything out of Ian is outside of his realm of caring. 

“Maybe a few times.” Ian finally speaks, the slight pause in his words giving him away. 

Mickey is tempted to taunt Ian, maybe mock him for how straight laced he comes across. Not quite a try hard but the picture of a Northside boy escaping a trust fund and bratty younger siblings - not a rough and tumble Southside kid trying to find some sanity. It’s kind of funny when he thinks about it, plays around with the idea that fate somehow brought them here - together.

But fate is a bunch of bullshit and destiny doesn’t exist.

“Right.” Mickey runs a hand over his mouth before turning around, coming face to face with a car that blaringly honks its horn in his face. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too.” He calls after the car, flipping them off as the Chevy rolls by, following in the wake of Sandy’s tire marks.

Maybe it hasn’t hit him yet, the knockout from his cousin leaving him in the middle of nowhere but he has sense enough to keep moving. He brushes past Ian, briefly scanning the cars left in the parking lot. 

It was slim pickings to say the least with the parking lot consisting of an RV, a crumbling old pick up, an Impala that looks brand spanking new, and a Pinto parked under a nearby tree. Not exactly the L.A. Auto Show but it would have to do. 

“Pinto’s less conspicuous.” Ian interrupts, somehow already standing next to Mickey with his hands buried deep in his pockets. 

A huff and Mickey’s going ahead, bee lining for the car. “I got this, thank you.”

“Why’d you fucking ask then?”

He shrugs. “Because.”

He can almost feel Ian rolling his eyes, indignant in his time. “That’s still not an answer.”

Getting closer to the Pinto, Mickey makes sure to look around and finds the entire area mostly empty. It’s a safe assumption that the owner is held up in the bathroom but he knows better than most, to always make the job quick and easy. 

With the window slightly rolled down, Mickey is able to dig his fingers into the space and manages to push it down enough to force his arm all the way down to the lock. Ian keeps guard just behind him, teeth fidgeting with his bottom lip while Mickey grunts in relief once he gets the door open. 

It’s been a while since he’s done this. In fact, Mickey can’t remember the last time he stole a car but muscle memory was bound to kick in. He slides into the driver’s spot and gets his hands onto the bottom half of the steering wheel, yanking it down to expose several sets of wires. 

The door next to him creaks open and Ian’s at his side again, his stare making the back of Mickey’s neck heat up. 

He’s in the middle of grabbing two wires when he snaps, “What?”

“You gotta - no.” Ian interjects as Mickey slides the wires together, attempting to make the car start. “It’s the other one.”

Mickey glares up at him, brow in deep set annoyance. “Did I ask for your help? Make yourself useful and keep watch.”

“Just -” With a huff of his own, Ian nudges Mickey out of the way, his elbow colliding with the other man’s chest. 

He gets hold of two other wires, easily rubbing them together while the car rumbles once, twice, and finally kicks in on the third attempt. 

Mickey’s gaze goes blank and once again, Ian is giving him that shit eating grin with a big ‘I told you’ written all over. 

“Let’s just go.” And it’s all Mickey can say without accidentally giving Ian any praise. He opens the car door and Ian stares after him.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“I’m not driving. You are.” 

Ian gets out at nearly the same time, meeting Mickey as they both head toward the trunk to switch places. 

“Why me?” 

Mickey doesn’t tell him that he’s worried that he’s forgotten how. It’s been seven years since his hands have been behind the wheel of a car. If it’s anything like when Mickey learned how to swim, that shit definitely didn’t stick. 

“You wanna stay here? Get behind the wheel, drive the fucking car, man.” 

The thought briefly flickers behind Ian’s eyes, Mickey’s not blind enough not to notice. It’s more trouble then he needs, a kid just wanting to get a ride home and he has options. Options Mickey doesn’t. 

“Okay, yeah.” Ian finally tells him and Mickey watches him brush past, still unsure whether his tagging along is good or bad.

With both of them back inside the vehicle, they slowly pull out of the spot and pick up speed as they head back out toward the highway. It’s another four hour ride at least, the less breaks the better. 

Mickey just wishes his heart would stop beating so hard, reminding him how alive he is. 

—

“So what’s the plan, boss?”

Ian’s voice breaks through Mickey’s very thrilling view of the grass on the side of the road whipping past his eyes and he groans, resting his head back against the seat. 

“Get the fuck home, that’s the plan.” Mickey muses, his eyes closed to avoid the scrutinizing look that Ian’s most likely giving him. 

They’ve been driving for hours now - Mickey lost count somewhere - and he’s done nothing but mindlessly stare out the window while Ian sings along to every song known to man. It’s even worse that the guy’s not even all that bad, compared to Sandy at least.

As if on cue, Ian speaks again. “What about Sandy?”

“Haven’t figured that part out yet.”

There’s no telling if he’ll ever figure it out, considering his cousin is better at conning than he is and has years of hiding under her belt. For his luck, Sandy’s already in Chicago, throwing over a pound of coke into Lake Michigan. She’ll say she’s protecting him, doing it for his own good but they both would know that’s bullshit. Sandy is doing it because she doesn’t think Mickey has the guts to stop. 

And she’d be right.

  
Ian thumps his fingers against the steering wheel, tongue running over his teeth in that annoying smacking sound. “You’re right. Great plan,” he says, sarcasm dripping over every syllable. 

“Fuck you, man. Kind of working off the cuff here.”

Leaning over, Ian pops the glove box and motions to the inside. Most people these days have a map for stretches of highway and Mickey finds it settled right on top, pulling it open onto his lap. 

Ian is ahead of him though, sneaking peeks at where Mickey is scanning their route with his finger. “Next big city is Grand Junction.” He points at a city on the map that’s definitely not Grand Junction but Mickey gets the point. “Could stop there, find somewhere to stay.”

“With what money?” Mickey mutters as he stretches the map out in an effort to pinpoint Chicago. It seems even farther away on paper. 

Ian wracks his brain, clearly attempting to find some kind of solution while Mickey berates him. “Could sleep in the car.”

A pause. Mickey sneers, using a pen in the glove box to circle Chicago over and over again. “You’re a real genius, you know that?” He uses some of Ian’s own sarcastic tone, nearly poking a hole in the map. 

“Yeah, I did. Thanks.” Ian chuckles to himself and the radio switches to another song, the twanging almost comical when compared to their current situation. “Mickey, one more thing.” He tacks on, one long finger pointing to the dashboard.

There, in all its glory, is the gas meter. He sees nothing wrong with it at first but he narrows in on the little hand creeping toward the ‘E’ and he swears. E for empty. E for they’re entirely fucked. 

“You’re fucking kidding me.” And Mickey presses his fingers into his temples, convinced that this is his karma for all the shit he did as a kid. Prison wasn’t enough. Now that God had his hands on Mickey again, he was going to twist the knife until it tore him in half. 

“Are you going to snap at me if I said I have an idea?” Ian asks somewhat cautiously.

“Depends.”

That appears to be enough of an answer for Ian as he takes the very next exit toward some random city Mickey’s never heard of. It’s just a pin prick on the map and it’s average, bustling but nothing crazy. It reminds him more of the back streets of Chicago than any other place he’s seen so far and it’s both comforting and worrying. The signs overhead point to a gas station a few blocks down, tucked away from the street with a couple of cars at the pumps. The wording on the sign is faded but legible and a convenience store is conveniently cramped right underneath it. 

Ian pulls the Pinto into one of the pumps, his hand instinctively reaching for keys that aren’t there. The act makes him laugh and Mickey glowers, already missing the point. Ian doesn’t pay him any mind though and gets out of the car, resting his arms on the hood as he waits for his companion.

“You hungry?” Ian questions him offhandedly.  
  
“Is that your big plan?” 

He can’t hide the irritation, a common thread of their conversations. Ian must be used to it because all he does is smile at him, a smile he’s never really seen on anyone else. 

Mickey hates that he’s not more bothered by it.

The other man slaps the roof of the car and pushes back, motioning toward the convenience store with his thumb. “Just have a smoke and calm down. I’ll be right back.”

Mickey’s cigarettes are his one saving grace, at least he’s got that right. The pack is still nestled in his jeans and he pulls it out while Ian saunters off to do god knows what. It’s only been a few hours since he last had one but the nicotine does his nerves a world of good, the smoke filling in the empty spaces in his chest. He leans back against the Pinto and lets the cigarette dangle from his lips as he continues to fiddle with the map, vaguely committing the cities to memory. Grand Junction, Denver, Omaha, Des Moines, Chicago.

It feels endless but almost too short at the same time. Four major cities before Chicago. Four cities until he’s back. Four cities until he has to face his new life. Four cities until he doesn’t have to see Ian again.

It’s soon but not soon enough. Long but not long enough.

It’s only a matter of minutes before Mickey hears someone shuffling toward him and he peers up, the blinding light not keeping him from catching the red hair. “About time. What’d you do?” 

“Nothing.”

Ian hands over a pair of sunglasses, some knock off aviators and Mickey admittedly has to hide the hint of a smile. There’s a bag on the truck too, one that he’s just now noticing. “Did you fucking bump the place?” 

“I took a few things. No one noticed.” Ian motions to the pump and wiggles his brows, taking the handle and moving to the tank with a knowing grin. “Free gas too. She was feeling charitable.”

Mickey can’t even deny that he’s impressed. Sure, the kid was from his same area, must have gone toe to toe at some point in his life but it was slick, more slick than Mickey gave him credit for. “You’re nuts.”

Ian chuckles, letting the car fill up with gas. “I’ve heard worse.”

“You sure no one saw you?” Mickey asks as he pushes the sunglasses onto his nose, already feeling relief from the harsh sun rays. 

“It’s just some drunk old lady in there.”

A puff of smoke rolls between them and Mickey rests against the car again, slowly shaking his head. “Old ladies can snitch too.”

Ian shakes off the pump once it's done and slides it back into its spot, pushing his own pair of sunglasses on. “You worry too much,” he says with such a cool tone that Mickey wonders if he rehearsed it before coming back out of the store. 

“First time I ever heard that.” 

And it’s not a lie. Mickey worried just the right amount, worried about everything enough to stay living. He snatches the bag off the truck and peers into it curiously, not able to get a good look before Ian’s interrupting again. 

“I think this trip is going to be a bunch of firsts for the both of us.”

Mickey ignores whatever that implication might mean and gets into the car, leaving Ian with his mouth half open and clearly more to say. He hears another short laugh and he’s joined not too long after - Ian’s hands going back to the wires. 

It gives Mickey the chance to dig into the bag, pulling out a worn package of powdered donuts and a bottle of water. “You call this food?” He mocks him, checking the expiration date and finding it a miracle that it says July ‘77.

The car rumbles to life and Ian drives the car forward, tuning the radio with one free hand. “Give me two hours and I’ll get you some real food.”

“Yeah, you fucking better.”

\--

The truck stop they pull up to later that day, is almost exactly how Mickey imagined it might be. A shanty posted up next to a stretch of highway, hoping for the best. It’s all tumbleweeds, grease stains, and insolent old men trading war stories with guys fresh out of Vietnam. As soon as Ian’s parked, Mickey is the first one out of the car and his boots kick up dust, powdering the bottom of his jeans. He fights the urge to roll his eyes behind heavy weighted shades, taking a big whiff of the gasoline and midwestern depression in the air. 

It’s not exactly the picturesque mountain views they advertise about on every poster and pamphlet but Mickey is hardly trying to take a tour of America with Ian Gallagher. Turning back to the car, he can see that Ian’s pushing the console up enough to hide the exposed wires, his teeth baring down on his bottom lip as he forces it upwards. 

“You almost done or what?” Mickey barks at him, one calloused knuckle rapping on the window. 

“Yeah, one second.” Ian raises a hand to signal him, a hint of accomplishment in the quirk of his lips as he finishes up. 

Even with sunglasses on, the sun bears down on Mickey’s brow and he squints to make out the gas station in the nearby distance. A small building nearby serves as their makeshift cafeteria, more like a cardboard box for vermin than anything humans should eat in.

Letting out a breath, Mickey waits for Ian to join him - the other fiddling with the car like it was a toddler before finally leaving it alone. 

“Scale of one to ten, how likely is it that we get food poisoning?” Ian jokes around, quirked lips and all. 

It’s a stupid comment, dry in its delivery but Mickey still entertains it. 

“Thinking at least a seven but I'm taking my chances. Better than your fucking gas station donuts,” he mutters as he starts off ahead of Ian. 

Mickey’s short strides make it easy for Ian to catch up, his arm brushing against Mickey’s when he starts walking alongside him. “Hey now, I worked hard to get those for you. An honest day’s work.” 

“You call that honest?” Mickey says with a raise of his brow. 

“More honest than stealing a car.” 

Mickey hates that he has a point. He walks a bit faster on purpose, his jaw set square as he get up to the door and curls one hand around the handle. It takes him ten seconds to realize Ian’s not behind him and Mickey slides his sunglasses off, shielded by the awning of the crumbling building. 

Ian standing in the dirt pathway, hand pressed up against his brow to shield his own eyes from the sun. It’s silly, his own sunglasses tucked into his collar but he’s looking at something - that much is obvious. Mickey follows his line of sight across the empty space to the far off parking lot laden with semi trucks. There’s a gathering of maybe ten, fifteen men - huddled together with beers in their hands in the middle of the day, chattering off as they scratch at the bottoms of their scraggly beards. 

He doesn’t understand what’s so interesting about them. It’s as if Ian’s looking in on them as a foreign species, his facial expression scrunched up in thought.

They don’t have a single cent between them. Maybe a handful of pocket lint and a few salt crumbs at the bottom of a pretzel bag but Mickey knows how to get food. Getting food out of people is easy. They don’t have to rob anyone to get it either. 

So he doesn’t get what Ian’s looking at.

“Hey, Gallagher!” Mickey calls out, his own face screwing up in confusion. “You coming or what?”

Ian tears his eyes away from the men and turns back to Mickey with a hesitant and lopsided sort of smile. Not all the way there but not from off from the mark of sincerity. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be right there. Just - get us a table, okay?”

“Wait -” The snap of a profanity lingers on the tip of Mickey’s tongue but Ian doesn’t look back at him, doesn’t wait for him to go inside. He just starts walking and Mickey stands there dumbfounded, annoyed even. “Fine,” he grumbles to himself as he roughly yanks open the door to the cafeteria, greeting by the thousand and one conversations happening in the relatively small area. 

He’s not thinking about what Ian could possibly be doing, isn’t entertaining the thought for one second. Nothing about this trip came along with the fine print of babysitting a grown ass man, not even one that acts like a fucking kid. And Mickey doesn’t care. He really doesn’t.

It feels like the days are going by on repeat, driving him up the wall with the monotony of it and it makes Mickey feel sick to think that he misses Chicago for the first time in seven years. He picks a booth near the window facing the left side of the building and slides into it, not even bothering to pick up a menu and instead he runs a hand over his forehead in exasperation. The noise around him jumbles into a thick ringing behind his ears and Mickey presses his fingers into his temples to find some relief. 

None of this was supposed to be this hard. His mind flickers back to the weeks before his release, Sandy’s stupidly sweet letters about how much fun they were going to have when he got out. How she’d found him a place to stay back home, far away from Terry who was toeing the line between freedom and incarceration anyway. It felt like a pipe dream back then, a normal life. Two years on parole with a shitty P.O. before he was just himself again but the longer he’s on the outside, Mickey starts to think that maybe even normalcy is too big of a dream. 

From where he’s sitting, Mickey idly peers out the window and mindlessly contemplates the dust as it rolls across the cracked asphalt. It’s not purposeful but he lets his eyes wander down to where Ian had gone off to, spotting his familiar form down by the trucks. He’s hard to make out but he’s distinct enough that Mickey knows it’s him. 

He’s standing alongside the truckers that Mickey had spotted earlier, talking to one in particular. The man is not much to look at - mid forties at worst, patchy beard, tall. For a second, Mickey chooses to believe that maybe Ian knows him, maybe they’ve met somewhere before during one of Ian’s other hitchhiker ventures but even that simple explanation doesn’t settle well in his stomach.

It goes out the window when Ian touches the man’s arm, when he smiles at him. It’s a normal gesture, familiar and innocent but then they’re moving together - side by side until they’re gone between two trucks, completely out of Mickey’s view. He swallows thickly, not sure what his thoughts are doing or where they’re going because everything that runs through his mind seems irrational. 

He blames it on how brand new his life has felt in the last 36 hours, like he’s starting over from the day he was born. Maybe there are things Mickey just doesn’t understand.

“Coffee?” A voice interrupts him and the dull thud of a mug resounds next to Mickey’s arm. 

He glances up, running the flat side of his hand over his mouth before managing a crooked and forced smile. The girl standing there can’t be older than 18, dark circles under her eyes but a pleasant expression on her face. She shouldn’t remind Mickey so much of Mandy but her dark hair and pale skin puts a heavier weight in his chest. 

Clearing his throat, Mickey nods sharply and the girl takes the cue, pouring steaming hot coffee into the mug she flipped over. 

“Let me know if you need anything else.”

Mickey watches her walk away and sighs, gripping the bug in one and letting the heat sip into his body. He drinks it black, idly watches as the hands on the clock tick by and he makes a point not to look back out the window. The waitress returns once, twice, a third time when the little bell rings over the door. 

Ian’s standing there, the same as he was fifteen minutes ago - if only now, he’s running a hand through his hair to push it back out of his face. He spots Mickey within a second and slides into the spot across from, flashing that horribly wide grin at their waitress. 

“Do you think I can get one of those too, Wendy?”

The girl, Wendy, as Mickey now notes on her nametag - giggles and her eyes light up much more than they had for him. It makes the previous intrusive thoughts in his mind push their way out and he relaxes slightly, a weird after effect of Ian’s presence. 

“Yeah, for sure. I-I’ll just be right back,” she manages to stutter out before walking off. 

As soon as she’s out of ear shot, Mickey gives in and shakes his head, bringing his hand down to nurse his now cold mug. 

“You get that a lot?” Mickey asks, head nodding in the direction of the counter where Wendy fumbles with a new pot. 

Ian grabs a couple of packets of sugar nonchalantly but he smiles in a shy but smug way. “Sort of. I can’t help it that I look like this,” he says right as Wendy scoots back over to them, that cocky smirk turning to her instead. She sets the mug down, fresh and piping hot and bends down slightly that Mickey can see down her shirt. It makes Mickey turn away, clenching his teeth. Ian still lays it on thick, his voice horribly self servicing. “Thanks, doll. Appreciate it.” 

The jerk has the audacity to wink at her and a dark blush comes across her face, another flurry of giggles spurting out as she gives a small ‘you’re welcome’ - off to take care of the next customer. 

Mickey raises a brow comically high, seeing that Ian is giving him _that_ look now and it makes his heart thump erratically for a beat. He takes what’s left in his mug and chugs it, hiding his face behind the porcelain. “Alright, asshole. Keep it to yourself,” he tells Ian when he finishes. 

“What? It’s funny.” Ian shrugs as he empties sugars into his mug, way more than is probably necessary. 

“That’s funny to you? Girl’s gonna try to slip you her address.”

Everything’s quiet if only for a few seconds at best, idle chatter being their background noise. Ian looks like he’s thinking, taking the mug to his mouth for the first time and speaking around the lip of it. “Good thing I don’t like girls then.”

The coffee is long gone from Mickey’s throat but he still sputters, coughing into his sleeve. So - there’s that. It lingers like a hovering knife over his head and he already feels the cold sweat at the back of his neck. He already knew this, right? Mickey knew but hearing him say it, his green eyes narrowed on Mickey like that - it settles much deeper into his bones than he wanted. 

“You okay there?” Ian continues with more amusement than before. Sick bastard. 

And is he okay? Yeah. He’s great. His cousin’s gone, he’s breaking the law left and right, his parole officer is gonna have his ass, and Ian Gallagher is gay. Everything’s fucking okay.

“Yeah.” And it comes out hesitant, a hint of worry but it’s better than staying silent. The only problem is that Mickey can hear the barking in his ears already, his dad’s voice insulting him and his own words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “It’s like I said - keep that fag shit to yourself.”

Ian blinks and the playful nature he once had, fades quickly. His shoulders square out but he doesn’t seem angry or even shocked. “I plan on it.” 

Another sip. 

The pair fall silent, each of them messing around with their cups while Wendy makes another round in an effort to get Ian’s attention. He throws her a bone for a few minutes but they all can tell it's not to lead anywhere, much to the chagrin of their waitress. Her last trip ends with a sigh and she gathers their trash in her arms when she ducks back to the kitchen.

It leaves them alone again and Mickey takes to peering out the window, remembering now about Ian and that trucker. He can’t ask now, not when he’s put up an invisible barrier between them but the answer feels obvious when Ian pulls out a twenty that he didn’t have earlier. 

“You know, like it or not, we’re kinda in this together.” Ian speaks and Mickey is surprised he’s still sitting there when he can easily take the car, ending this whole thing right now. 

“Not by choice.”

“Maybe not but I’m willing to give it a shot.”

 _Why?_ Mickey thinks to himself. _What’s the point?_

He lets out a breath, his fingers scratching at the vinyl of the booth. “Not interested in giving you my life story.”

“I’m not asking,” Ian clarifies right away. “I just - maybe I just want to know you.”

_Why?_

Mickey gives him a noncommittal grunt, brushing a finger over his brow as he brings himself to look at Ian again. Nothing about the conversation is light or happy but it feels more like reality and not like both of them are ignoring that they’re different. 

“What if I get to ask one question about you a day?” Ian offers him, seemingly choosing to forget the way Mickey insulted him. It’s probably not the first time he’s heard it anyway. “Should only be a few days until we’re back in Chicago.”

Mickey thinks about it because really, Chicago is the end of the line. This only lasts until the city limits and after that, Mickey won’t think about him again. “Fine. Yeah.”

Ian runs his hands over his corduroys, a deeper brown color than the previous day. “Cool.” A brief pause and he launches right into like he’d been preparing for the moment. “Where’d you get the tattoos? You know - considering.”

It makes Mickey scoff, both of his hands coming to rest on the table and he idly traces over the imposing black letters that spell out ‘FUCK’, aggressive and deterring. “Some guy did it when I was 16.” He leaves out that it’s basically a family trait, each man having their own intimidating set. Mickey barely even remembers a time when he didn’t have them. He then points to the large tattoo on his forearm, shrugging as he briefly traces it. “Out in California. Learned some spanish, thought it was cool.”

Ian doesn’t change his expression and just nods to show he heard him. It’s not the most fascinating set of stories in the world and it’s not like he should be expecting much more from Mickey.

“How long were you in California?” Ian asks with an invisible prodding nudge behind it. 

“Sounds like another question. Try again tomorrow.”

It’s not really a joke but Ian laughs anyway to clear the air. “Whatever you say, Mick.”

The nickname makes Mickey’s mouth go dry. Had he used it before? Would he have noticed?

Ian leaves the twenty on the table and gets up, turning to face the door. The sky is already turning a deep shade of orange, the day fading quickly. Mickey can’t remember time ever passing right before his eyes without the feeling of agony coming along with it. Another new thing to add to the list. 

Sliding out of the booth just after Ian, Mickey catches Wendy looking after the both of them with a forlorn look in her eye. She must be thinking she missed out and she couldn’t be farther from the truth. The bell rings again when Mickey wakes his way outside, pulling his sunglasses out from his collar before nearly colliding with Ian’s back. 

The insult is on the tip of his tongue, because why the hell is he just standing there?, but Ian motions just slightly with an angling of his jaw and Mickey freezes. A single cop car is parked conveniently next to their very stolen Ford Pinto, with the officer peering inside of the driver’s window. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Mickey very lowly under his breath, his impulse wanting to run away like he was always taught. Like he should have done the first time. 

“Just act natural.”

Mickey grits his teeth, his fists clenching at his sides as he hisses, “You fucking act natural.” _You’re not a felon._

He goes forward one step when Ian stops him, one hand resting firmly on his stomach. 

“I’ll go first. Wait a few minutes before following me.”

Of course Mickey thinks about it. How Ian knows. Not that he has time to dwell on that now, not when his mouth is dry and his blood is circulating like lava through his veins. All Mickey has left in him is a curt nod and a side glance because the cop in his peripheral keeps him from being more eloquent. 

No more words pass between them and Ian steps away, off toward the trucks at the other side of the compound and his lack of presence makes Mickey feel exposed. Fear hasn’t passed through him in years now. It was more of growing accustomed to the cold judgement of guards, the rough beatings by police. Mickey was used to that. 

But now that he’s out, his reaction is slowly shifting to a twitch, to a tingling in his bones. The kind where the mere sight of a uniform has him flinching and if Mickey had to put a word to it - pathetic certainly comes to mind. Glancing up, Mickey sees that Ian is nearly all the way there, blocked by the long end of the trucks where the truckers are no longer standing. 

He inhales deeply and starts moving, taking his wide and short strides toward the same place Ian disappeared to. Maybe it’s paranoia but Mickey is sure he can hear footsteps behind him, crunching in the dirt that moves at the same pace at him but when he looks back - there’s no one to be found. 

A hand wraps around his elbow and Mickey jumps, knocking both of his fists into Ian’s chest. “Can you not fucking do that?”

“Jesus, sorry.” Ian pulls his hand away, taking to looking off to a secondary parking lot off to the right. “We’ve got to get another one.”

“Another genius idea. I was thinking about walking to Illinois.” Mickey finds his voice getting louder, deeper, sharper with every rebuttal Ian offers him. 

The other doesn’t go down easily though and squares up, his height helping him bare down on Mickey. “I’m the one saving our asses now and you’re going to get mad?”

Mickey huffs out of his nose like an angering bull, closing the space between himself and Ian. “Yeah because we’re in this shit because of _you_ ,” he adds emphasis to the last word, nearly spitting. 

“Because of me? Are you kidding me?” Ian bites back, his own voice getting louder though it doesn’t last long before he hushes himself. “You wanted to hijack a car and I stole some fucking donuts.”

“What other choice did I have, huh?”

And they both pause, neither of them wanting to back down. The sinking truth is that, now they really are stuck with each other. There is no avoiding it, taking it back, or forgetting about it. 

“Exactly.”

The two men stare at each other - a palpable tension running between them and the thought of punching Ian in the face passes through Mickey’s head. Violence is a reflex and he can feel his knuckles tingle with all the faces he’s broken with them. Adding Ian to the list would be the easy route and the temptation is there but he doesn’t. At least not before Ian has a chance to speak, his rage more of a dull flicker compared to Mickey’s. 

“Did you get it all out?” He asks him with a singular raised brow, his arms perched at his sides like a mother waiting for their child to stop having a tantrum. That alone is aggravating and crawls under Mickey’s skin but he still doesn’t move. 

“Fuck you.” It’s weak compared to the upper cut he should have deliver to Ian’s stupid crooked jaw but it’ll have to do for now. A fight just means prison. A fight means a bigger fight than one’s Mickey prepared to have. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Ian stomps away from him then, in between the rows of trucks and Mickey waits a beat before following after him. He’ll beat his ass another day, before this trip is over. With some distance between them, the two walk out toward the parking - still hyper aware of the cop car still looming back behind them. They’re not suspicious just the pair of them but one wrong move and they suddenly would be. 

Two guys who barely know each other stealing random cars at rest stops. Completely innocent and not at all strange. 

_No officer, we had a good reason. My fucking cousin left with my coke and I have to find her. The kid is just along for the ride._

Just the idea of saying it makes Mickey nearly physically nauseous. 

As they get into the parking lot, Ian wastes no time in choosing a vehicle for them this time. Something much less of a sore thumb than a Pinto. An old Ford pick up - better than the last though - sits in a spot in the back, mostly blocked by other cars in the surrounding area. It’s a chance and one they have no option but to take. 

Mickey lets Ian do most of the handiwork this time, his heart pumping too hard against his rib cage for him to start another argument. The cop car is still idling next to their Pinto in the distance, the man circling and circling like some kind of vulture. From behind him, Ian jimmies the lock and while it takes a few tries, he finally gets it open with a resounding click. 

A word of praise comes out of Ian’s mouth as he gets into the driver’s seat and Mickey quickly follows suit, though his eyes don’t leave the same spot. The officer isn’t looking their way and he takes that as a small blessing. 

“Make it quick, come on.” Mickey hollers in Ian’s ear while the other swats at him, mouth set into a straight line. 

“I’m trying,” he hisses, grabbing at a similar set of wires. 

It’s taking longer than last time and Mickey swears the ball in his throat is going to suffocate him at any moment. The cop circles the Pinto one more time before he stops, sliding his glasses down his nose and he gazes - right in their direction. 

“Ian.”

It’s the first time Mickey’s used his name, preferring not to use his name much at all but it comes out without him thinking. His pupils are wide as the cop practically bores his eyes right into Mickey’s from only 100 feet away. 

_Oh fuck._

Ian doesn’t hear him or chooses not to answer and grits his teeth as he rubs the wires together over and over, swearing under his breath. 

“Ian. Fucking go.” Mickey starts again, one of his hands forming a death grip on the man’s shoulder. The cop finishes staring and claps his hands together, getting into his car and starting the lights without a second of hesitation. The bile rises in Mickey’s throat and he’s yelling. “Go, go right now.”

The truck roars to life and Ian yelps, smacking the steering wheel with relief. “Got it!”

“Then fucking floor it!” 

Ian is delayed in his reaction, eyes moving between Mickey and the flashing lights of the cop car that’s moving out of the first parking lot and heading straight for theirs. “Oh fuck.”

It’s meant with a flurry of panicked laughter and Ian pushes his foot straight down on the pedal, the whole bed of the truck jerking forward as he races between rows of cars toward the signs marking the highway. He maneuvers easily and Mickey grips the dashboard with one hand, barely able to keep himself steady. 

The lights of the police car come up right behind them, that noise so painfully familiar that Mickey is sure his heart will come sliding right out of his chest and onto the floor. And yet, somewhere in the far back of his mind, some part of him feels that adrenaline kick deep inside him. 

This must be what it feels like to be alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never made note of it before but almost every chapter title correlates with the song I was listening to when I was writing so if anyone wants to form their own 70s playlist, there you go! And I've tried to do as much research as humanly possible but if anything is ever wrong, please let me know.
> 
> find me at: [@s11mikhailo](https://twitter.com/s11mikhailo) \- twitter // [xgoldendays](https://xgoldendays.tumblr.com) \- tumblr


	7. Stuck In The Middle With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter took absolutely forever but if you follow me on twitter and tumblr, I mentioned taking a bit of a break for my mental health. Now I'm back though and bringing with me the longest chapter so far! I'm pretty proud of it so I hope you all enjoy. 
> 
> big huge thank you to: [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse), [vic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/floristmick), and [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor) for helping and supporting me during the writing of this chapter! I appreciate you all so much.

In cell B-50, on the first floor of Beckman Correctional, there was a guy named Harry. He was a fairly big guy, certainly outdoing Mickey in the weight department by a good hundred pounds and at least half a foot in height. Bank robbery was his speciality and the man wasn’t shy when it came to long, lavish stories about his old life. It all started in the midwest before migrating west, the fancy ass California banks drawing him in. 

It was easy pickings for a while, bumping off cry -baby yuppies in secure buildings, who turned their noses up at hippies. Mickey heard all the tales a hundred times over the course of a year but Harry’s favorite was always the story of how he got caught. He’d tell it between bites of his day old toast and pack of strawberry jell-o, never once thinking that maybe Mickey was tired of hearing it. 

It was out in Tulsa - mid sixties, sometimes ‘64 and others ‘65 and Harry decided to hit up a bank in the back ends for old times’ sake. He was five years younger back then, had a couple thousand in his bank account, and had never been caught - never even suspected. It was a growing streak of luck and he kept rolling the dice. 

Harry would say he was one of the fortunate ones - criminals that never paid for their crimes. 

But that bank in Tulsa was the wrong place and the exact wrong time. The specific details always changed but Mickey remembers it always ending in Harry trying to escape and getting caught, slapped with a sentence of 10 to 15 at the age of 35. His memory had faded as quickly as the years of his life and that alone made Mickey sympathize with the man. He was worse off than Mickey and that was saying a lot. Mickey played into the running delusion, always asking Harry the same question. Did he regret any of it? And with a drink of orange juice and a brief crack of his knuckles, Harry looked Mickey in the eye and said - ‘no.’ Every single time.

And Mickey believed him, never had a reason not to. 

Harry died five years into his sentence, stabbed by his cell mate after a scuffle over a blanket. But Mickey distinctly remembers the last time he heard the story of that day in Tulsa, especially the part where Harry answered his question differently for the first time. When Mickey asked again, Harry didn’t answer with a simple ‘no’. He put the weight of his hand on Mickey’s shoulder and said - “You’ve gotta take your chances, Mickey. Everything you do in life is a gamble. If you don’t ever play the game, how do you expect to win?” 

Mickey remembers Harry from time to time. Thinks about what he said. And now, sitting in this car beside Ian, wonders if this is what he meant. It’s a gamble, a game of odds and maybe Mickey wants to believe that maybe his odds are a little bit better this time around. 

The truck takes a sharp left turn and Mickey’s head whips sideways, only inches away from colliding with the windshield. The veins in his neck protrude as he turns his head to look at Ian, only getting a brief glance at his profile - his brow scrunched up and his teeth making white marks on his bottom lip - before moving back to the lights flashing behind them, ever persistent. It’s been less than a mile of this chase, barely high speed but fast enough that they’re breaking the speed limit, passing by the other cars on the road in a matter of seconds. In the moment, Mickey can’t tell which is hitting him harder - the nausea or the smell of burnt rubber wafting past his cracked window as Ian turns to get onto the highway. He pushes it down enough to speak, hyper aware that they’re up shit’s creek without a paddle or a plan. 

“Okay, genius. You got any ideas?” He chokes out, one shaky hand grabbing the seatbelt and clicking it into place now that they’re on a straight lane of road. 

Ian’s hands are curled tightly around the steering wheel, tension riddled throughout his whole body and there are tiny flickers of Southside trauma in the way his biceps twitch under his skin. “Two options - we either pretend we had no idea we were being followed, which is kind of obvious bullshit OR I try to lose him.”

To be fair, both options make Mickey’s stomach churn and he sniffs, running his hand over his mouth in a brief swipe. 

“Which one keeps us out of prison?” It’s more of a loaded question than he’ll ever tell Ian and he can’t avoid the slight quiver in his voice when he asks. 

“Depends which one of us is a better liar.”

Mickey is silently grateful for the quick response and takes a second to think about it. He doesn’t know Ian well at all, doesn’t know where he’s been or where he’s going but from experience, no conversation with a cop is a good one. “Second one.”

Ian manages a laugh at that, his grip loosening if only fractionally. “Yeah. Probably the second one.”

It’s a cue all its own and Ian gets this flash of determination across his already serious features. He steps down on the gas a little harder, the gears of the old pickup grinding while the floor rumbles with speed that it hasn’t experienced in years. They’re still in the sticks so the roads are mostly clear - the time of day where most normal people are at work or living their lives in brick houses with their 1.5 children. 

It’s not exactly shocking to Mickey that he’s doing the exact opposite, never having been able to escape the inevitable. 

Ian though, Ian seems to be in his element as he increases the distance between them and the cruiser, switching lanes like escaping cops is a trick he keeps up his sleeve for emergencies. Mickey can’t help but find it impressive, a bit of admiration behind the tactful way he takes a random off ramp, putting a good two cars between them and the cop.

The light ahead stops them and Mickey’s knee bounces in rhythmic tone with the vibrating undercarriage. 

“You okay?” Ian asks, not giving Mickey the slightest glance. 

“Yeah. Great. Peachy.” 

The seconds the light stays red seem to drag on for hours but when it finally changes, Ian doesn’t follow the lane of traffic they’re in. He makes a sudden switch to the lane next to theirs, taking off toward the right instead of the left. Mickey gapes, his mouth hanging open as he hears the brief screech of tires and the whopping of a police siren. From the mirror once again, Mickey sees the cop cruiser stuck between the oncoming traffic, blocked as the cars slowly attempt to get out of his way. 

Even then they’re not completely out of the clear and Ian makes a mad dash for the next closest side street. It’s another town they don’t know, a place neither of them have ever been but Ian maneuvers like he’s been there a hundred times. The truck bulldozes over the cracks in the road as the sirens fade back in and ring behind Mickey’s right ear. 

Ian quickly whips past what could have been a general store and takes the left into the alleyway behind the row of buildings. It’s narrow and crowded, dumpsters lining one side. If Mickey were to reach his hand out of the car window, he was sure his fingertips would brush along the brick of the adjacent wall. They drive a good ways down the narrow stretch before Ian slows the truck to a halt, half blocked in by a row of boxes and an overflowing dumpster. 

The adrenaline still flutters in Mickey’s chest and it feeds the urge to tell Ian to keep going but he keeps his mouth shut as both men stay quiet, listening to the ringing of the sirens get closer and closer. Mickey parts his lips as if to speak but Ian raises a hand, his eyes peering off toward the end of the alleyway. 

The sound gets dangerously close and in a matter of seconds, the cruiser rolls past their hiding spot without so much as stopping. Both of them wait ten seconds, thirty seconds, in case the cops make their way back but the sirens fade into nothing - leaving the pair in silence. 

“Holy shit.” Ian breathes out and his shoulders sink down from their squared position, relief washing over him. “Wasn’t sure if that was gonna work.” 

It takes Mickey longer to let the same wave crash over him, eventually falling back against his peeling seat. “Yeah, no kidding.” He exhales sharply, feeling the distinct urge for a shot of whiskey. “Fucking idiot.”

Undoing his seatbelt, Ian shrugs once and he’s smiling - a wide brimmed, almost euphoric smile. “An idiot with excellent driving skills.”

Mickey thinks Ian must be insane. The guy gets off on nearly getting caught while Mickey can barely contain the crumbs of food rolling around in his stomach from coming back up. “Jesus Christ, man.”

“You’ve got to admit - it was pretty fun,” Ian tells him as he pushes open the car door and slides out, slapping a hand on the corroded corner of the hood. 

A groan leaves Mickey’s lips but he does the same, coming out to meet Ian at the front of the car. Whatever city they’re in is eerily silent and it gives Mickey that uneasy feeling in his gut. 

Ian keeps speaking when Mickey doesn’t answer, his forehead furrowing. “It’s not a crime to admit it, you know.” 

How ironic. 

“Nothing to admit.” Mickey grumbles as he starts walking away, abandoning the car and peering around the corner of the alleyway. The coast is literally clear - not a single soul in sight and only a handful of dust clouds blowing about in the wind. 

Ian comes up beside him, hands buried deep in his pockets as he squints down the way. “What’s the plan then?”

“Get out of here.” 

For a second, it seems as though Ian might just go along with it but then he’s smiling again and Mickey loses all hope. “Literally or is that the plan?” 

Fighting the urge not to roll his eyes, Mickey continues down the sidewalk and wipes his sweaty palms on the front of his denim. His body feels uneasy, his steps wavering and not just because of the uneven pattern of the bricks under his feet. Mickey doesn’t take the punches so easily anymore, a hard framework replaced with a soft underbelly - a weak spot. He runs his hands over his arms to quell the crawling feeling over his skin as Ian takes up space a step behind him.

It takes them a good half hour to get near the highway again - Ian having taken too many twists and turns in the damn truck for it to be easy. Mickey can feel the back of his ankles aching, his boots too aged to last in long distance walking. It doesn’t help that Ian is persistent in following right by his side now, his shoulder occasionally bumping against Mickey’s in a way that makes him flinch. 

“What would you say if I had one more plan?” Ian asks, barely octaves above the sound of the cars in the distance.

“I’d say - no.” 

A sigh. “Come on, Mickey. What do you have to lose?”

My freedom, Mickey thinks. But the nagging part of his mind can’t stop the curiosity, his lips drawn up into his mouth. “Go on then.” 

Ian grins at that, sticking his thumb out into the street. “Old faithful. Hitchhike.” 

There’s no denying the skeptical way that Mickey looks at him, a singular brow raised high. “You wanna get in some random guy’s car?”

“Got in the car with you and Sandy, didn’t I? I think it’s working out pretty well for me.” Ian nudges him, a friendly gesture but it makes Mickey jump. “Let’s just try it? We’re not exactly overloaded with options here.”

Mickey swallows back the lump in his throat, nudging Ian back if only to get him to put space between them. “Fine,” he ends up mumbling under his breath, hopeless in his resignation. 

The street narrows until it’s only barely wide enough for the two of them, both men having to clumsily dodge each other as each step threatens to make more of their bodies touch than just their shoulders. As they lessen the space between themselves and the highway, the crowds come back slowly but surely - the town much more bustling near the open road. Shops start popping up on either side and they catch Mickey’s attention despite his need to keep going. 

Televisions in the windows play commercials at high speed, announcers rattling off names and times and Mickey finds himself stopping, hands shoved into his pockets as he stares. The 60’s were peace and love, grungy and free. Kids like Mickey back then, thought they had the world at their fingertips and maybe they did. Maybe he could have had it, too, but leaving prison was like waking up from a nightmare only to come back to find everything gone. 

“You okay?” Ian asks quietly as he hovers over Mickey’s shoulder. 

The commercial switches to a Burger King ad, a family coming on screen and the light music of the jingle filtering into Mickey’s ears. 

[Have it your way. Have it your way. At Burger King.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJXzkUH72cY)

“Stupid fucking jingle.” It doesn’t answer Ian’s question - it’s barely a sane thing to say at all but it’s hitting him. It’s finally hitting him. 

It’s just a commercial on a TV in the middle of nowhere but to Mickey, it feels like more than that. It feels like the passage of time. He lets it sink in that he doesn’t know this world or anything in it, not anymore. 

The clothes, the hair, the way people carry themselves, the brands of foods he’s never eaten. He’s mesmerized, not even noticing how close Ian is until his shadow casts shade over the reflection of the glass. 

“I mean - yeah. I wouldn’t want the checkout girl at Burger King to sing at me either.” Ian mutters, a half assed attempt at a joke. He waits a beat before clearing his throat, gesturing over to something out of sight. “You think you’ll be good if I go call someone real quick?”

“Yeah, man. Not your mom.”

“Right. I’ll be back.” 

Ian backs up away from him and turns on his heels, going over to a pay phone that’s not even ten feet away. He picks up the receiver and balances it on his ear while he digs around for loose change in his pocket. A few coins clink as he pushes them into the slot, the number keys sticking when he punches in the number he wants to call. Mickey is only half paying attention at best, still watching the crackling TV screen. But when the call goes through, his attention seems to shift on its own.

It’s not something Mickey can help. The pay phone is within earshot and Ian’s not exactly whispering so when he overhears his conversation, it’s not him eavesdropping - it just so happens that Ian’s voice carries all the way to Mickey’s ears. 

“Hey.”

On the TV, the announcer is promoting a new television rental service while Ian speaks softly, more familiar than he does with Mickey.

“Traveling. Seeing the sights, you know.” A pause and Mickey can hear Ian’s shoe hit the side of the phone post. “No, I’m fine. Lip, I’m fine.” 

Mickey breaks away from the TV and acts casually, pretending to look off into the distance as he runs a finger over his brow. He doesn’t mean to look up but Ian catches his attention, the two making eye contact and it must be his imagination when he sees Ian hide a smile. 

“Yeah, I’m coming back. Should be a few days. I have a ride.” Ian’s looking directly at Mickey when he says it, as if including him in on the conversation. “No. He’s - nice.”

That makes Mickey scoff and he turns away, resting his back against the wall so the TV sounds in one ear and Ian’s voice is in the other. 

Ian keeps talking like Mickey isn’t there, as if he isn’t listening and he’s curling the phone cord around his finger. “You worry too much. I’ll see you when I get home, okay? I’ll tell you everything.” Another pause. “Yeah, okay. Love you, too. Bye.”

Mickey purposely peers off to the left, chewing on the inside of his cheek when Ian hangs up the phone. He keeps up the act right up until Ian’s back at his side, taking the spot on the wall next to him.

“It was just my brother,” Ian tells him with a slight shrug. 

It hadn’t occurred to Mickey to think it was anyone else.

He doesn’t dwell on it, doesn’t make the snide comment that’s on his lips and bites it back in favor of something lighter. “You lying to your brother so he doesn’t worry?”

“I’ve got nothing to lie about.” When Mickey doesn’t respond, Ian pushes off the wall and squints off in the direction of the highway. “Maybe I just really think that.” 

Mickey still doesn’t grace him with a response but more of a noncommittal grunt and starts walking off again, ignoring another new jingle that starts up. Ian appears to be okay in avoiding the conversation for now and follows in his wake, boots scuffing the uneven pavement as he walks. 

It stays silent for a painful few minutes, the occasional honk and yell filling in the majority of the space. But it’s clear Ian isn’t content with the emptiness, opening his mouth again. “You’re sure you wanna do this?”

Mickey sniffs a bit, wrapping his pointer finger around his thumb to crackle the knuckle there. “Not much of a choice.” The air is tense and Mickey doesn’t need it, doesn’t want that weird sort of tension that comes with knowing someone. Because he doesn’t know Ian, doesn’t _want_ to. 

Ian doesn’t waver, broad shoulders squared but his voice stays light. “At least you’re honest.” 

There’s not much more to say to that and Mickey nods, contemplative. “We’re in it now, man, but you help me find Sandy and we call it even,” he states, straight to the point. 

It’s only been a few days and Mickey briefly wonders how it’ll be. 

When they break ties. 

“Yeah.” Ian starts but there’s a strain in his voice. One that Mickey can’t pinpoint the intent behind. “Yeah, sure.” 

Mickey pushes his shoulders down, feeling the muscles stretch as he feigns relief. “Sandy might kick my ass if I left you anyway.”

A chuckle and Ian’s back to normal, at least the normal that Mickey’s grown used to. “Yeah, maybe.” He looks off into the distance, the highway coming closer still. “Or she said fuck both of us and went back to Chicago.” Ian teases. “You live there your whole life?”

It’s a question he doesn’t think twice about answering, some kind of pride in it. “Born and raised.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“You already got your question for the day.” Mickey stops the string of questions right in its tracks and Ian sniffs in annoyance. 

“Can’t throw me a bone?”

“I do that and you’ll think we’re - I don’t know.”

Mickey isn’t used to talking about himself, not used to people wanting to ask him questions. Police interrogation and school teachers barking for his homework were the long and short of his experience with questions. Mickey doesn’t know much about honesty, about good intentions, about doing something for nothing but the sensation he gets in his chest isn’t bad. It doesn’t weigh him down in the way he thought it might. 

“Acquaintances? Travel buddies? Friends?” Ian emphasizes the last word, the tone getting under Mickey’s skin. 

“Not doing this shit with you.” 

“What shit?” Ian’s full on laughing at him now and Mickey hides the fact that he’s not actually angry behind a hard exterior. 

“Just get us a damn car. I’m tired of walking.”

“Yes, sir.” Ian has the nerve to actually salute him and he stops near the street, one foot on the sidewalk while the other drops down, his arm extending out into the road. He sticks his thumb out like he demonstrated earlier. 

If Sandy didn’t have the heart of a crooked saint, Mickey might have been in Chicago by now. His new life would have started already. Instead, he sits on the side of the road and watches Ian flag down cars for half an hour.

“Great plan,” Mickey calls out to him as he rests his elbows on his knees, his arms going slack. 

“You have to find the right one, Mickey. You never learn patience?”

“Nah, think I skipped that day in school.”

Ian is about to respond, probably with something equally as cheeky when a car turns the corner and rolls down their street. They’re barely going the speed limit and lose speed even more as they get closer. From where Mickey’s sitting, he can see it’s a pretty damn fancy car for this place. The glossy silver exterior of the Mercedes glimmers in the light and contrasts sharply with the faded brick, the peeling paint of the buildings around it. 

Whoever they are, they shouldn’t be here. Maybe they’re just as gone as the two of them, hoping the lost boys can guide them. Whatever it is, the car pulls up right beside Ian and a voice comes out of the slightly open window. Mickey can’t see the man’s face from the glare of the sunlight but he can hear him just fine. 

“You looking for a ride?” The man asks and he sounds older, at least a good twenty years their senior if Mickey were to guess. 

Ian isn’t phased and if anything, his demeanor changes and he leans forward, his arm coming to rest on the lip of the passenger door. “Hey, yeah we are. Where you headed?” 

“I’ll be stopping in Grand Junction for work. You’re welcome to tag along - both of you.” The driver almost sounds reluctant when he includes Mickey and it makes his face scrunch up, a wave of nausea hitting his stomach. 

“Yeah, that’s perfect.” Ian glances back at him for confirmation and Mickey hesitates before giving a brief nod. 

What other choice do they have? 

A hand extends out toward the window and Ian takes it, shakes it. 

“Ned.” He tells Ian and the glare fades, revealing a man of at least fifty with a Rolex on his right wrist and an air about him that reads wealth. 

Ned’s eyes are locked on Ian’s, his hand gripping the other’s tightly and maybe for a bit too long. The corners of Ian’s lips turn up but not enough to be that wide brimmed smile that Mickey has seen too many times to count. Still, it’s friendly enough and he introduces himself, chipper and bright. “Ian. And that’s Mickey.”

Mickey’s mouth parts and his lips pull up slightly into a sneer. “We leaving or what?” He barks, standing up and brushing off his pants. 

It makes the two other men look in his direction and Ian finally pulls back, clearing his throat while Ned fixes him with this smarmy look that is nothing if not familiar to Mickey. He’s used to people looking down on him. 

“Yeah, let’s go. You good in the back?” Ian offers to him, opening the passenger’s side door once Ned unlocks it. 

Mickey’s stomach gives another odd twist and he meets Ned’s gaze, scowling without meaning to. It’d be easy to say no, to leave Ian to go on some adventure with this grandpa but his feet move forward toward the open door, making his decision clear. He grumbles under his breath from getting stuck in the back seat again but he manages to bite his tongue when he knows this might be the only ride they’ll find in the next few hours. Ian isn’t nearly as wary, sliding into the seat with not the slightest bit of tension in his whole body.

Good for him.

He closes the door and Ned adjusts the radio, putting on some station that caters to the oldies - the crooning voices of the 50s filtering through the speakers. 

_Hey, hey set me free. Stupid Cupid, stop picking on me._

Mickey rests his forehead on the cool glass and sighs, fogging up the window with his warm breath. There’s resignation in every exhale and his nerves that were once on edge slowly climb back down from their heightened state. As Mickey keeps to himself, the two men in the front eventually find their way to a conversation. Ned asks Ian question after question - how old they are, where they came from, where they’re going. 

Ian reveals their hometown and it’s another slap in the face that Ned just so happens to be from Chicago as well, the little fact making the two share a healthy round of laughter. Ned’s a Northside based doctor on a business trip out in the mountains, who took the wrong exit looking for a rest stop. It’s just another layer on Mickey’s welcome home shit cake. A rich yuppie from the Northside picks up two wandering kids from Canaryville. 

Talk about a fucking small ass world. 

Their chatter goes on for the next thirty minutes and it reminds Mickey of how Sandy interrogated Ian when they picked him up - except Mickey didn’t feel sick every time they laughed or had something in common. It’s a miracle he hasn’t thrown up by how often his stomach churns, a twisted form of car sickness. Turns out they weren’t far at all from Grand Junction, a few exits at best. It was just Mickey’s shitty luck at work all over again. He barely gets a moment to rest his eyes and give his heart a break before he sees the city limits pull up into his line of vision. 

It’s nicer than any other town they’ve been to, closer to upgrading to a full blown city than the truck stops and highway traps. The buildings are all coated in shiny new paint, their outsides lined with flowers. The houses are quaint, small but put together and their occupants - well they couldn’t be farther from the degenerates back in Vegas. It’s homegrown, postcard type shit and Mickey knows he’s the sore thumb before even stepping out of the car. 

Ian bares his teeth in a wide smile and rolls down the window, letting his arm rest against the side of the car. The wind that comes in, pushes Ian’s hair out of his face and whips past Mickey’s own. He isn’t looking intentionally - he doesn’t care enough to - but Ian happens to be in his eyeline and the sight makes him pause. 

They come from the same place, probably went to the same schools, hung out at the same shitholes, maybe even knew the same people but Ian has something behind his eyes that Mickey’s never had. 

Happiness.

Ian smiles at every little thing, his cheeks flushing at something dumb Ned says that Mickey isn’t listening to. He reads young, his face all freckles and fine lines over pale skin. The setting sun gives Ian’s hair a deeper hue and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he watches the sights. It’s not shocking but it throws Mickey that someone like Ian came out of the fire unscathed while he himself was formed by the heat of the same flame but has hundred of marks all over his body. 

It doesn’t make sense but good for fucking him. 

Ned guides the Mercedes down what Mickey assumes is downtown and he’s never seen this many trees in his life, the crickets actually chirping outside the open window. There are no stoplights, barely any stop signs as traffic is run by the coming and going of pedestrians. Kids run back and forth along the sidewalk, watched vigilantly by their parents while they sling ice cream cones or a slice of warm pizza. It throws Mickey because Saturday’s in the Southside were never this wholesome, never this carefree. 

The car eventually makes its way to a hotel a ways down and it appears like more of a museum piece than an actual place to stay. Mickey peers at it through the glass, his brows pushing down his forehead. From looks alone, there was no way he and Ian could afford it even with money. 

Ned turns off the car and undoes his seatbelt, putting one hand behind Ian’s headrest to address the both of them. “The historic Melrose Hotel. It’s technically a historical landmark but it’s still open for business. I’ll get you boys a room.”

While Mickey stews at the word ‘boys’, Ian chirps up and touches Ned’s shoulder in that same air of familiarity from earlier. “That’s really nice of you but we don’t have any money.” 

Ned takes Ian’s hand and pats the top of it a few times, speaking calmly but firmly. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay me.” He leaves the car then, taking the keys with them and leaving the two of them alone yet again. 

At worst, Mickey has the tendency to be unaware, lost in translation, but the way Ned said that, makes his blood boil. It’s made a fraction worse that Ian apparently thinks nothing of it, still beaming when he turns back to Mickey. “And you hated my idea.”

“Still hate it.” He makes clear, arms crossing over his chest.

Ian shakes his head. “It’s free.”

“What’d he mean by that, anyway?”

“Not everyone wants something from me, Mick.”

Mickey grunts at his extremely clever response and Ian brushes it off, opening his car door once Ned comes back a few minutes later. The idea rubs him the wrong way and when he takes the key from Ned, he eyes him in that steel cold way that’s become instinct for him. Ned blinks and pulls back, his hand on Ian again as he hands off his key. 

“Third floor, boys. I’m on fourth if you need anything. Room 415.”

Mickey plasters on a poor excuse for a smile, looking more like a rabid dog but Ian picks up his slack with his gross politeness. “Thanks, Ned. We really appreciate it.” 

“You see, that’s what I fucking mean.”

Ian breathes out, amused by Mickey’s antics and takes hold of his arm to lead them inside. “Come on.” 

Mickey shakes his hand off in an instant, pushing past him into the lobby. It’s another culture shock from the beginning - the lobby rustic but fancy, the walls lined with photos and paintings from eras long before theirs. Soft rock plays on a nearby jukebox as the two men walk toward the elevators. They stay quiet for the whole ride up to the third floor which is a miracle for both of them at this point. And maybe that’s for the best since Mickey’s presence alone gets them a displeased look from a family that joins them on the second floor. 

The two hold their breath for the minute it takes to get to their floor, pushing past the family to get into the hall. Ian starts chattering off again, of course finding the whole situation funny but Mickey ignores him in favor of finding his room. 

“Mine’s right here.” It’s the only bit of Ian’s talking that he catches and Mickey pauses to read his room number. 305.

“Mine’s 340. Down at the end.”

Ian nods as he puts the key in the lock of his door, leaving it open with his hip. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

“Yeah.” Mickey replies in that same noncommittal way, his own key dangling from his ‘U’ pointer finger on his right hand. 

Pushing the door the rest of the way, Ian fixes Mickey with a soft smile. “Night, Mickey.”

He gives no response and Ian playfully rolls his eyes, closing the door on Mickey once he’s inside. He stares at the wood for a few seconds before dragging his feet down the hall to his own room. It’s a carbon copy of Ian’s, he’s pretty sure. The walls are cream, the bed creaky wicker with a floral bedspread, with a single television backed up against one wall. 

It’s nice, better than most places, and when Mickey flops back onto the sheets, he’s nearly asleep in the same instance. The weight of the day he just had finally falls off of him though his dreams flash red and blue lights, sounds of screeching tires. To Mickey, barely any time’s past when he hears a dull thumping coming from his left. It stops and starts, a muffled sound following in the pauses. He only just went to bed, it can’t be time to get up already.

The noise persists though and Mickey groans, sitting up reluctantly.

“Who the fuck is it?” Mickey croaks out and he leans over to look at the clock on the bedside table. 11am. “Jesus.” 

Seemingly placated by the response, the noise stops but soon he hears a familiar voice through the thin walls. “It’s Ian. Who else would it be? Open the door.” 

Mickey kicks off his sheets - that he somehow got on himself in the middle of the night - and gets up, smoothing out his day old and most likely stinking shirt. He turns the door knob but leaves the chain on, sticking his face through the gap. 

“What do you want, huh?” 

Ian’s a lot closer than he expected and Mickey takes him in, catching a whiff of cologne that he doesn’t recognize. His hair is pushed back out of his face and he’s wearing a brand new crisp Rolling Stones t-shirt, tucked into dark washed denim. “I tried to come get you for breakfast but you didn’t answer. Must be a heavy sleeper.” 

“I was tired.” Mickey tells him like it’s obvious, shielding his poor choice of sleep clothes from Ian’s view. 

Ian doesn’t seem to notice and he holds up a bag, pushing it through the gap Mickey’s left open. “Look, um - Ned got us a few things. Clothes and some spending money.” His expression changes, having caught onto the apprehension when Mickey doesn’t grab the bag right away. “He’s just being a nice guy, Mickey.”

_Nice guy, my ass._

Mickey’s always hated charity, never wanted anything to do with it especially from guys about as slimy as the underside of a slug. But his choices are becoming less his own and he snatches the bag when he feels his shirt sticking to his back uncomfortably. “I’ll be out in fifteen.” 

He closes the door in Ian’s face and heads into the bathroom, taking in his appearance for the first time that day. The bags under his eyes are a soft purple contrasting with his pale skin. He’s not nearly as pale as Ian but he’s getting there, exhaustion seeping into every pore. 

Shedding his clothes, Mickey turns on the hot water and lets it run along his back in comforting waves. He takes longer than usual, scrubbing the grime of the last day out of his scalp. It’s still strange to him to have regular running water, hot and clean, much less time to himself to get ready. 

He takes as long as he can sliding into the new clothes, brushing his teeth as he stumbles into new jeans that are amazingly the perfect size. His t-shirt is much like Ian’s but it’s a looser fit, the end sitting lower on his hips and he tucks the front half into his jeans. If he cared to think about it, Mickey might have thought he actually looked good. 

It’s nearing 11:30 when he comes back out, finding Ian waiting for him right next to the door. “Fifteen, huh?” 

“Needed to shower.” 

“Uh huh, are you good to go exploring now?”

Mickey walks down the hall with Ian just a bit ahead of him. “Exploring?” he asks, adjusting his belt so it sits in front of the button on his jeans. 

“Yeah. Hang out. see what’s around.” Ian starts explaining, pressing the button for the elevator to take them downstairs. “Ned‘s got work but he said we should meet for dinner. If you wanna come.”

And there comes the downer. 

A huff and Mickey goes straight faced, his back resting against the wall of the elevator. “Don’t.” 

“Thought so.” It’s not said with contempt, more matter of fact than anything. “Either way, I’m yours until 6. What should we do?”

Something about Ian’s words click into his head and he looks down at his watch. “Hold up, what day is it?”

“Sunday? The fifteenth.” 

“Shit.” Mickey swears under his breath, his head hitting the back of the wall with a thump. “They got a phone here?”

When Sandy told Mickey about the arrangement with his parole officer, he was skeptical to say the least. What kind of government guy let a criminal spend time out on the road without wanting something? But this guy, apparently he was different. All Mickey had on him still was the office’s number, scribbled in Sandy’s handwriting - no name, nothing else but that. 

The fifteenth was their midway point. Mickey had four days to get back to Chicago or his ass was as good as grass. Sandy was the one who was supposed to handle it, take the weight off of Mickey but with her not here, he’d have to face the music himself. 

Heading downstairs with Ian, they walk outside to a nearby payphone and Mickey gives Ian a glare to fuck off before picking up the receiver. He smashes numbers on the keypad, his hands trembling slightly. Parole officers were all assholes, his wasn’t about to be different. 

The phone rings for several seconds until the line clicks and a woman gets on the phone. “Illinois Department of Corrections. How many I direct your call?” Her gum pops at the last syllable and he can hear scribbling in the background. 

“I’m trying to get in touch with my parole officer.” Mickey answers the woman, his tone more formal. His good guy voice. 

“Name?”

“Um,” Mickey hesitates, checking over his shoulder to make sure Ian isn’t within earshot. Thankfully the man is a good distance away, looking into shop windows. “Mikhailo Milkovich.” 

“One moment, sir.” The woman makes it seem like she’s about to put him on hold but really her voice is only muffled by a hand over the receiver as she yells. “Larry! Phone!” 

A beat goes by and Mickey hears another click, the call changing lines and another voice chimes in. “Good morning! Larry Seaver here. It’s Mik - Mikhay - oh gosh I can’t pronounce that. You like to be called Mickey, right? Let’s go with Mickey. What can I do for you, Mickey?” 

Mickey is stunned into silence, his eyes going crossed as he stares at the receiver as if there must be some mistake. No way this is his parole officer. Not when he’s this fucking chipper. “I - um, was calling to check in. I’m getting pretty close to Chicago.”

“Oh good, good!” A clap sounds in the background and then more scribbling, followed by Larry speaking closer to the phone than previously. “Your cousin called me yesterday and said everything was going just swimmingly but I’m thrilled to hear from you.” 

A long pause, Mickey’s heart stopping. “My cousin called you?”

Larry continues, unphased and Mickey wonders if he’s fully listening to a word he’s saying. “That’s right. Around 4 o’ clock yesterday, she said you were still on your way. She sounded in a little bit of a rush but no mind, I have complete faith in the two of you.” 

“Right, thanks. Just wanted to make sure we’re still square.”

“Of course, of course. Square as a square dance,” Larry jokes. “Everything’s already ready for you. Anything else I can do for you, son?”

Mickey tries to think, running through a hundred and one questions but none of them coming out. “No, I’m good.”

“Amazing! Then I will see you on the nineteenth in my office. Safe travels!”

The phone clicks off before Mickey can say anything and he pulls the phone away from his ear, staring at it like that was all just one long fever dream. His parole officer is nice? Normal? Helpful? For a guy with a string of bad luck, it seems too good to be true. The one break Mickey catches and it’s in the form of his parole officer. What are the chances? 

Mickey lets out a breath of disbelief and he gets a wash of relief mixed with happiness, actually smiling somewhat as he sets the phone down. Ian has made his way back to him and he catches it, matching it with an expression of his own. “Good news?”

“Yeah, good news.”

Ian smiles with that gentle nature of his and nods, heading down the sidewalk. “Cool.”

\------

Mickey can’t remember the last time he spent the entire day with someone. Sure, he and Sandy spent their childhood years playing games and shooting the shit but with someone outside his family? Never. Not even once. So spending hours with Ian, someone he was forced into this whole mess with, is new and unfamiliar. He’s out of his element, he knows that upfront but the real question is why it feels - good. 

Ian talks too much, miles a minute in fact, and Mickey can barely process every word coming out of his mouth but he says everything with conviction, waves his hands around like everything’s a production. They start off by just peeking their heads into shops, their pockets filled with Ned’s money. It goes toward buying extra pairs of clothes, some necessities and maybe a few things neither of them need. Ian gets more souvenirs for his siblings and they each get new bags to stuff their findings in. 

It’s normal. It’s what people do when they have nothing to worry about but all Mickey does is worry. He constantly senses eyes on him, jumps when Ian touches him, shies away from other people who walk too close to him on the sidewalk. Ian doesn’t say it but he picks up on it. He moves around to Mickey’s other side to put a barrier between him and the crowds, he touches him less as the day goes on, doesn’t nit pick him with questions. 

Maybe they’re learning about each other and maybe that’s okay. 

Hours later and Ian’s in the middle of a story about school, mentioning people that sound familiar to Mickey. “Do you remember him? He used to brag about his dick at school.”

It freaks Mickey out that he does remember him. Some kid named Steve who also used to chew on the inside of his pencils in third grade. “It was probably fucking invisible, come on.”

“Maybe. But big balls to brag about it.” 

The pair end up laughing together in unison and it fills Mickey with a rush in his chest, a warmth that he’s never experienced before. As different as Ian is from him, maybe there are parts of him that do understand. They walk for a while longer before something catches Ian’s attention and he tugs on Mickey’s sleeve to drag him into a neighboring ice cream parlor.

The distinct smell of vanilla hits him in the face as they squirm into the crowd, lining up just behind a kid and his mother standing hand in hand. “Now don’t tell me you hate ice cream.”

Mickey grumbles but his eyes are trained on the case filled with buckets of ice cream. “Shut up.”

It takes a good ten minutes for them to get to the front of the line and Ian goes on ahead, ordering himself a strawberry cone with two scoops. He turns back to Mickey, eyes practically glittering with pleasure. “Let me guess, chocolate?” Mickey stares at him, a little surprised but nods and Ian preens, “Ha, knew it.”  
  
He orders the same amount for Mickey but in a cup and once they both have ice creams in hand, head outside into the now darkening evening. Ian finds them a table nearby, just under a street post and they sit across from each other - their shoes just barely grazing the other’s. It’s fucking cheesy, so out of place for Mickey but he lets himself indulge. He can let himself have one thing for one day. 

No one here knows him. No one can run and tell his dad that he’s acting like a fucking fag, sitting with a guy eating ice cream in the middle of the day. It’s nothing, it’s just for now. Just for today. 

“If you knew that guy, then you must have known my brother. You’re around the same age, I think.” Ian mentions, taking their conversation back to where they left it minutes ago. 

“He got a name?” And Mickey already starts wracking his memory for people that look remotely like Ian. 

“Philip. Lip.”

“Lip Gallagher? No shit.” The space that separates their lives gets smaller, almost pushing their parallel lines to intertwine. “I used to kick his ass for a few years, made him do my homework.”

Ian breathes out in disbelief, licking up the side of his ice cream where it’s melting down his hand. “Wait, you’re the guy who went to juvie? I remember hearing about it.”

At the same time, Mickey shoves a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. He talks with his mouth full, skipping out on his manners. “Yeah, sounds like me.”

“Small world.”

“Fucking tiny.”

The realization that they easily could have met back home, on the streets they both wandered, hits Mickey in the chest. It’s funny how things work out. It took at least ten years and 2000 miles for two boys from Chicago to meet, only for them to get stuck on a road trip neither of them asked for. It was so coincidental that it was almost too hard to believe but that still wasn’t fate. Not in Mickey’s book. 

Ian keeps talking briefly about his brother while they finish up their ice cream, both getting up from the table with the intention of going back to the hotel. Ian turns away from the trash can where he just tossed his napkins, only to collide chest to chest with a man. 

“Whoa there, soldier. Nice to see you again, too.” Ned puts a hand on one of each Ian’s arms to hold him steady, his old man chuckle more than a little off putting. 

Mickey throws away his cup and stands back, glancing down at the time on his watch with a slight frown. 

6pm. Of course. 

Ian’s expression tells Mickey that he’s also surprised to see him but it quickly dissipates into one that’s calm and polite. “Oh hey. We were just finishing up.” He says as he motions back to Mickey. 

Ned can’t be bothered to spare Mickey a glance but he does let go of Ian, doing a swoop with his hands as if ushering him to come along. “Great, dinner then? Both of you boys coming?”

Ian turns enough so that he can catch Mickey’s eyes. “No, Mickey said he’s not up for it. Right?”

“Yeah, no thanks. I’m good.”

Maybe it’s the light but Mickey swears that Ian hesitates before he follows Ned, giving him a brief wave of goodbye. Mickey watches the pair go until they’re nearly out of sight and turns on his heels, choosing to head in the opposite direction. The way to the hotel is longer this way but it gives Mickey some time to himself. Some of his usual sense of normalcy. 

He gets back at around 6:30 and goes straight to his room, using some of his money to get a shitty sandwich to bring upstairs with him. It’s turkey on plain toasted white bread but hell, at least it’s food. He eats the whole thing while the news plays on the TV in front of him. Flashes of war and flickers of politics. A president he’s barely heard of - Gerald Something. It dazes him much like the television back out on the road but now that he’s alone, he takes time to absorb it and actually listens to what the world’s been through in the last seven years.

By 10pm, Mickey has seen the Jaws trailer five times, heard about Vietnam for an hour, and memorized the jingle for the newest iteration of Coca - Cola. 

Flicking off the TV, Mickey stands up and grabs his cigarettes off the bedside table. The pack is nearly empty but there’s at least four in there waiting for him. He takes it with him outside, finding a bench nearby to sit down on until exhaustion overtakes him again. For a while, Mickey watches the entrance to the hotel and wonders if Ian’s back yet. 

It’s none of his business but the thoughts run through his mind anyway, an annoying buzz he can’t get rid of. He blows through his first cigarette, his second, into his third when the clock in the middle of the square bongs with the passing hour. 

He doesn’t trust Ned but does he trust Ian? Does it even matter? 

The smoke from his fourth cigarette billows upwards into the night sky and once it clears, Mickey catches that he’s not entirely alone. In the back parking lot, he sees Ian lying on the hood of Ned’s car with his feet on the front bumper to keep him in place. His eyes are turned up toward the sky and he has one hand tucked under his head, the other nursing a bottle balanced on his stomach. 

Mickey is quite sure relief is what he feels when he stands up but he takes a break from smoking, suddenly uninterested in it. He takes two half steps forward and stops, blocked by the building. The reasonable thing is to go inside, go to bed, let the fucking ache in his chest go away but he takes another half step forward and all reason is out the window. 

He’s relatively quiet as he approaches the car, his slow moving feet his security blanket. He can still back out if he wants to, turn back before it’s too late. Five more steps and Mickey’s standing just ten feet away, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. 

Ian speaks first, having noticed him in spite of Mickey’s best efforts. “Lots of stars out, don’t get that much back home.”  
  
Mickey holds his cigarette out and points up with two fingers. If Ian wasn’t going to make a deal about him being there, he wasn’t either. “You sitting out here looking for shooting stars?”

“Yeah, kind of.” At the same time, Ian slides over to one side of the hood, his eyes not moving from the sky. “Come watch with me.”

A simple string of words and Mickey’s mouth goes dry, his lungs finally feeling the dry burn of his chain smoking. “And grandpa doesn’t care that you’re on his car?”

Ian blinks as he pats the spot next to him and mutters,“Just sit with me, Mickey.”

It’s instinct for him to look around, a chill rolling along his spine at the thought of someone seeing them. They’re just two guys, two nobodies from nowhere but people never mind their own. They never learn to keep to themselves especially when they think something is out of place. Luckily, the coast is clear, only a few stragglers walking on the sidewalk out front and Mickey digs his heels into the bumper to lift himself up onto the car. 

It takes him a moment to adjust, carefully turning onto his back so he doesn’t bump into Ian. Even then, Mickey’s wider set body takes up the remaining space and his arm presses up against Ian’s, a tiny fraction of contact but it’s enough to make him shiver. 

The sight is actually better than he thought - the sky up above is littered with small points of light, some bigger than others. It’s clearer than anything he ever saw back in Chicago, not that Mickey had the luxury of stargazing. No, that was heading to a level that was far too soft, too gentle. Yet here he was. 

Mickey Milkovich, hardened criminal, watching the stars with a guy he just met. If only Terry could see just how much prison had affected his son. 

After a few minutes, Mickey feels the chill of Ian’s beer bottle pressing into his hand and he takes it silently, bringing the bottle to his lips. Ian uses that as an in and it’s a matter of seconds before Mickey can feel eyes on him. “I haven’t asked my question for today.”

Maybe it was the breeze or the tobacco getting to him but Mickey indulges Ian, at least for now. “Was kinda hoping you forgot,” he says with a dry laugh.

“Not likely.” Ian laughs right back, his hand resting on his upper torso while the other takes the cigarette that Mickey has yet to finish. “So - what’s waiting for you in Chicago?”

It’s a relatively innocent question to ask and Mickey doesn’t fault him for it. He’s keeping Ian at arm's length, curiosity is bound to set in. It’s just that Mickey can’t think of an easy answer. It would take novels to lay it all down and Mickey’s never had a way with words, never wanted to give people that much leverage against him. 

He settles on vague, another bite of the bait but not letting Ian catch anything big. “Nothing,” he replies as he takes another swig of the beer before pushing it back into Ian’s hand. 

“Nothing?” Ian repeats and while Mickey isn’t looking at him, he can imagine the confusion on the other man’s face. “It can’t be nothing.”

Mickey holds off on responding, thinking of something to say to avoid Ian’s persistence. “Job, apartment, Sandy’s fucking nagging.” 

Larry Seaver. Two years of parole. His dad. A drug deal. 

“That’s not nothing.” Ian muses as he finishes up the rest of the bottle, eyes turning back to the scene above them. 

“Pretty close to nothing.”

“It’s more than you might think.”

Mickey shrugs, tucking one arm behind his head for leverage. “Guess I don’t have to ask what you got waiting for you,” he tells him. 

“A job, my old house, Lip and Fiona’s nagging.” He chuckles low and has another witty response at the ready. “But I don’t think my siblings count as what’s waiting for me.”

“Counts more than you think,” Mickey admits because while Sandy is more like his sister, it’d be nice if his actual one gave a shit. 

Ian goes quiet and he turns again, catching Mickey staring at him and the pair share a few strong seconds of eye contact. It’s more than they’ve shared so far and it makes Mickey’s mouth go dry. It’s dark outside, barely a few street lights to light the way but even then Ian’s eyes are too green to be real, his body too close for comfort. 

Mickey looks away abruptly, running the back of his hand over his mouth while he sits up. “Think I’m gonna head in.”

His words cause Ian to match his movements, one of his palms on the hood to balance himself. He’s still watching Mickey, lips parted slightly. “Mickey?”

“Yeah?”

“Ned asked me to go with him. To Chicago.”

Mickey processes his words for a moment, pushing off the car but he doesn’t glance back toward Ian. He keeps his eyes trained on the back of the hotel building, preferring to stare into oblivion. Maybe Ian’s waiting for him to say something because all he hears is the other man’s breathing, a brief shuffle of his shoes against the steel. 

When he thinks about it, it’s a pretty sweet offer. A free ride back to Chicago in a nice car with a rich guy. He doesn’t think about what Ned might want from Ian in return, doesn’t think about what he saw back at the truck stop or their very first night in Vegas. It’s none of his business anyway. 

There’s only one thing he can think to say as he starts walking away, gripping the pack of cigarettes in his pants pocket only to find them empty. 

“Good for you,” he speaks out into the vacant parking lot, the words briefly echoing back at him. 

He leaves Ian there, not waiting around for a response and he heads into the back entrance of the hotel. His hands itch for something to grab onto and he squeezes the pack in his palm as he takes the elevator silently up to the third floor. When the doors open up, Mickey launches the crushed up cardboard into the nearest trash bin and heads into the direction of his room. He passes by room after room but stops automatically at his own, fumbling with the key until the lock clicks. 

There’s almost nothing there that’s his but he gathers everything he bought into a corner by the bed right by his shoes. He’ll have to be up early if he’s going to catch a ride, use the remainder of the money to catch a goddamn bus like he should have from the beginning. 

Maybe there’s no reason to be annoyed. Maybe Mickey’s being a little bitch, his emotions getting the better of him in spite of all the years he spent trying to get rid of them entirely. Maybe the day he spent with Ian was exactly what he suspected - nothing. All he knows is that he’s standing at the crossroads and there’s no one there - again. The end of day three and Mickey’s alone. 

Mickey sheds his clothes and tosses them into the same pile, brushes his teeth, does what someone should do before bed. He turns on the television again and the same Jaws commercial plays, irritating his already sensitive nerves as he tucks himself into the clean sheets. It’s more apparent than before that this is temporary and getting attached is a load of bullshit. 

Fuck them.

Mickey can do this on his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think this was a cliffhanger but apparently it is so - oops? I'm living up to my brand as the queen of cliffhangers. Thank you so much to everyone who leaves a comment or even reads this story because it really means the world to me. I hope to have the update out in the next week so fingers crossed! 
> 
> come talk to me at:  
> [@s11mikhailo](https://twitter.com/s11mikhailo) \- twitter // [xgoldendays](https://xgoldendays.tumblr.com) \- tumblr


	8. Ramblin' Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me updating in a week? unheard of. my creativity is really going right now so expect updates more quickly while I'm in this groove.
> 
> we're doing it every chapter but thank you to [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse) and [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor) for being the best, helping me edit, and always encouraging me!
> 
> and special shoutout to [taylor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boneached) for being so supportive, kind, and sweet and also for making [this perfect edit](https://twitter.com/ianlovebot/status/1277417370575949824?s=20) that made me a sappy mess. this one's for you <3

Mickey should be used to early mornings. Prison ran on a schedule - everyone slept at the same time, woke up at the same time, ate and shit at the same time. Every day started as soon as the sun came up, heavy knocking shaking the steel doors of his prison cell. His roommate snored and Mickey never slept more than a few hours. After year four, it became ingrained in him to wake up with a start, to have dark bruises on his arms, to wake up — just to exist but not to live. 

So when Mickey wakes up at what feels like the crack of dawn, he shouldn’t be so annoyed. Shouldn’t groan heavily as he throws the extra pillow on his bed over his face. He blames it on a decent bed, clean sheets, and a mattress that isn’t made of sponge and plywood - they’re spoiling him for things he shouldn’t get used to. 

His head is throbbing, his mouth still has the weak taste of tobacco rolling behind his tongue and his muscles carry the dull ache of a night poorly spent. The curtains are drawn in his room but he can still tell the sun hasn’t come out in full force yet, just a light shine behind the fabric. Mickey rubs one hand over his eyes while he blindly reaches for his watch on the bedside table. It takes a moment of squinting and working the blurriness out of his vision but he’s pretty sure the hands are pointing to nearly 6am on the dot. 

The morning prior was nothing like this one - no annoying knocking, no wrinkled old clothes used for pajamas, and no man’s voice outside his door urging him to wake up. Mickey can’t tell if he prefers it this way or not. It takes him a minute to get going but eventually he throws his legs over the side of his bed and gets up, takes a cold shower to wake up his body, and packs all his shit into the bag he bought the day before. 

The irritation still sits under his skin as he throws his knapsack over his shoulder, his pocket stuffed with the remainder of Ned’s money. He’d spent hours thinking it over, weighing out his options and when it boiled down, Mickey decided to say - fuck it, he’d walk back to Chicago if he had to. Getting the door open, Mickey walks into the hallway and passes room after room - his eyes briefly landing on one in particular and wondering if  _ he _ was in there at all. 

His fists curl up when he thinks about that predatory glint in Ned’s eye, how Ian let him do it, how he went behind a freight truck and came back with money. It all sweeps over him and his empty stomach grumbles enough to make him nauseous. 

But this is not about Ian. Fuck him. It’s not about him. 

This is just his pride talking. A strange sort of responsibility he has for Ian, owing him for getting him this far but resenting him for dumping Mickey at the halfway point. That’s all it is. It isn’t that Mickey actually cares. It’s the time and place that leads him to overthink. Emotions flooding back to him after he spent so long feeling close to nothing. 

Maybe he should learn to leave well enough alone, move on, don’t take things so damn personally. 

But it feels personal. It feels like a punch in the gut. 

Just thinking about it constantly makes Mickey grit his teeth and he jabs at the buttons to the elevator as if it’ll make it move faster. He takes it down to the lobby and there’s already people moving through, newspapers tucked under their arms and others stumbling in from a long night out. He dodges an elderly couple and mutters an apology as he heads to the front, the key from his room dangling from his fingers. 

The woman at the counter is different from the one Mickey remembers from the day before and she opens her mouth, most likely to say good morning to a weary looking Mickey but he beats her to the punch. 

“Just returning the key.” Mickey tells her as he slaps the key on the countertop, the metal scrapping over the marble. 

Her name tag says Marcie and she stares at Mickey with a tight lipped smile. It’s clear it’s too early in the morning for this - she’s just trying to do her job - and her expression only gets more distant when she hooks her fingers around Mickey’s key. 

“Oh, room 340?” She asks him, suddenly interested in something just underneath the counter, out of Mickey’s view. 

“Someone told me to give this to you. In case you came downstairs.”

Marcie puts the key back on a hook behind her shoulder and slides the crinkled note over to Mickey, her lips quirking up in a half smile. Maybe this is the most exciting thing that will happen to her today, maybe in the whole week, and Mickey pities her for that. Still, his curiosity reaches an all time peak and he picks up the note, stuffs it into the front pocket of his jeans. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, sparing her a short wave as he takes his leave and heads out into Grand Junction. 

The city is different in the daylight. If it was picturesque before, now it is downright poetic. The trees are stark green against the orange sky, the clouds newly parting to let in the rising stream of light and Mickey hears the soft chirping of birds, matched with the bustling of a few cars and a bicycle or two. It’s not his type of scene - guys like Mickey never flourished in places like this, but he wonders what if he had. 

How different would his life be now?

With the note stashed in his pocket, Mickey drags his feet down the sidewalk and when he passes by the parking lot, he makes a point not to check if Ned’s car is still in the parking lot. He ends up having to ask for directions to the bus station from the one person who doesn’t scowl at him and it’s a twenty minute walk through downtown. Last time he checked, Mickey was left with a solid ten bucks and a couple of dried up mints he snatched from a mom and pop shop. It was enough to get him somewhere but not very far and definitely not Chicago.

Mickey takes the steps up to the station and stops in front of a map, using his finger to guide his way from Grand Junction to the next cities in the path back to Chicago. He’s committed them to memory so it’s no surprise but the distance feels more palpable on paper than speaking it out loud. At a stretch, he’s got enough to get him to Omaha - a good seventeen hour journey according to the list of departures - but Des Moines is out of reach. He checks the time and breathes out, mentally counting the hours he has left before he’s due in Larry Seaver’s office. 

Monday, June 16th - 7am to Thursday, June 19th - 10am. Three days. 75 hours. 4,500 minutes. 

If he walks from Omaha to Chicago, it makes him roughly three days late. 

No big deal. It just happens to be that he’s entirely fucked.

With no other options at his disposal, Mickey walks up to the window and slides the ten dollar bill to the man punching out tickets by the handful. He takes the money quietly, not looking up from his stack of papers when Mickey tells him he needs the first bus to Omaha. The ticket slides across the threshold after a minute and the man grunts, ‘Next!’ in an effort to get Mickey out of the way. 

“Yeah, thanks asshole.”

Mickey dodges a few random kids and a guy asleep on one of the nearby benches, finding a seat for himself right in front of the departure area. There’s twenty minutes to kill before his bus leaves so Mickey settles, throws his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. Everything about his body is collapsing on him, he’s never felt less like a young man now that the years he let pass finally got their chance to catch up with him. He’s withered and spent, his bones cracking and his back aching. 

He’s not 18 anymore. 

He’s 25 waiting for something to begin, waiting for his engine to kickstart when it hasn’t been used in years. Where Ian is a brand new shiny Ford Thunderbird, Mickey is the Ford Pinto left to rot with little to no chance of getting it going. There’s nothing about it that Mickey didn’t already know but it stops him from pushing, holds him back from trying harder. The real world is just a different prison and Mickey has to prepare himself to exist again, not live.

Mickey’s body finally takes pity on him and gives him a good five minutes of rest before he’s woken up by a screaming child somewhere in the cramped bus station. He wearily blinks open his eyes, righting his head as he stares at nothing in particular. One hand slides along his pant leg and he catches the sensation of the note against the lining of his pocket. There’s brief hesitation when he slips his hand into his pocket, fingers grasping at the paper. 

He takes a quick look around as he unfolds it, trying to act casual over a note from a guy. Just a note and nothing more but Mickey makes it a bigger spectacle in his head. Ian’s handwriting is much nicer than his own, still borderlining on chicken scratch but at least legible. There are only a few words written on it but they give Mickey this painful jab to the throat. 

_ Don’t go anywhere, okay? We should talk. _

Who does Ian think he is? They’re strangers, two people that were put into a bad situation together but that’s it. There’s nothing more to the story than that. Ian deluded himself into thinking Mickey might want to be his friend when Mickey knew it was all a fluke, just a way to pass the time after being abandoned by his cousin. As Mickey crumples up the note and tosses it into the trash bin just across from him, he thinks that their ties are cut - there’s no more to it than that.

When the clock strikes 7:30, a voice comes over a scratchy intercom and announces that the bus to Omaha is ready for boarding. A few other people get up at the mention, including a couple with two kids, a random businessman, and an elderly man with his dog. Mickey sighs, hiking his bag into his arms, and joins the motley crew as they single file their way outside. 

The Greyhound idles in its spot and Mickey goes in right after the man and his dog, the animal watching him with a bit of slobber rolling out of its mouth. This bus or another 18 hours stuck with Ian and Ned? He’ll take the drooling mutt any day. Thankfully, the man takes a space toward the front, leaving Mickey space to slide past them. The back of the bus is nearly empty so he finds his way to the farthest seat, as far away from everyone else as possible. 

The seat is scratchy, the headrest prickling the back of his neck but his muscles relax into it anyway. He’s just so  _ tired _ . Tired of trying, tired of waiting, tired of wandering, tired of thinking a fresh start was waiting for him. He just wants it to be over. 

Mickey tucks his bag between his ankles, the divots of the strap digging into his shins and settles his head against the window. The smoke from the muffler billows behind the bus, a couple of people still lingering on the outside - some of them shoving bags into the lower compartments. Maybe this is what he should have done from the beginning. 

Done it all on his own. 

Eventually, the bus gets moving around a quarter to 8 and the rocking as they head over small bumps in the road lulls Mickey to sleep. Sixteen hours to Omaha - no red haired assholes or whiny cousins to break him from his sleep, fool him into stupid plans, or let him down. No, Mickey’s used to this, Mickey likes this. He can learn to like being alone. 

There are a few stops on the way. One in Denver and one in a city he doesn’t remember the name of but for the most part, the trip is all white noise to Mickey. The businessman scratches notes into a legal pad for a few hours, snores like a freight train for another few. The older man’s dog barks at passing cars but the pair gets dropped off at Denver so it doesn’t last long. The couple’s kids giggle over a storybook, the sides of their heads pushed together as they huddle over the pages. 

Mickey remembers the brief moments that he and Mandy had, the times when they were allowed to just be kids. His heart twists at the thought but he smiles politely when one of them looks back at him with a small little wave. Other than that, barely anyone acknowledges him, hardly looks his way, and Mickey appreciates it in silence. 

The morning turns to afternoon and Mickey doesn’t eat anything at the rest stops, feeding off of cigarette smoke and spare car exhaust fumes mixed with some black coffee from a vending machine. He hasn’t been hungry for hours, his stomach having given up somewhere in the plains past Denver. No one there cares enough to offer him anything, let alone notice anything other than the sound of his rumbling stomach. He just sleeps and pisses like some kind of abandoned dog, not that he’s far off. 

It’s nearing mid morning on the 17th when they make it to Lincoln, just a touch away from Omaha. Mickey isn’t sure if he’s relieved to have made it somewhere or if it’s looming panic at not knowing what to do next. 

Two days, two hours. 

The bus creaks its way into Omaha and the watch on Mickey’s wrist creeps to noon - an entire day and some having disappeared right before his eyes. Omaha is all high rises and greenery, vastly bigger than the cities that came before it. It reminds him so much of Chicago, the nicer parts of it, at least. The driver stops at the station and the door hisses open, welcoming the remaining passengers to their final destination. 

Mickey waits as everyone else gets out - the couple and their kids gathering their bags with big smiles on their faces. Maybe they’re happy to be home, he thinks. He hooks his arm under his bag and lifts it, balancing it as his limbs stretch out after the last few hours of staying put. Mickey shuffles through the aisle and the driver nods at him, tells him to have a good day. 

Yeah, not likely. 

Mickey’s in a new city, another new view of the outside world that he’s unfamiliar with but this time, no one knows where he is. No one’s looking for him. Just like no one cared to visit him through prison glass for years. It’s always the same cycle, the same woven series of events - it’s just the presentation that’s different. 

Keeping his bag close to his side, Mickey hops off the bus and gets through to the station. It’s infinitely more packed than the one back in Grand Junction and he gets several more jabs to the ribs as people rush to catch their buses. He swears a couple of times under his breath until he finally manages to squeeze out of the crowd onto the street. 

The noise of the Omaha population harkens back to summers spent in Chicago, all yelling and laughing with his brothers, those brief moments where the boys thought they were living their best lives. Mickey thought he was powerful back then. He was the Southside thug that no one ever stood up to, no one fucked with, but as he’s smashed between rowdy teenagers as they share a bag of fries - Mickey feels invisible. Weak. 

There’s no use in waiting around; taking in the sights is not an option and Mickey steals a map from a convenience store rack to guide his way. It’s not the longest walk to the highway so Mickey pilfers a bag of chips and some water as well, tucking it under his arm as he makes the trek. He balances the map with one hand, eyeing it every few seconds while he pours water into his dry, smoke coated throat. 

There’s no way in hell he's going to try hitchhiking again. And stealing a car? Well, Mickey lost his will for that one the moment he saw those flashing lights. He knows the number for the Milkovich house, knows Sandy is most likely there, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Even if he snagged a few cents for the call, his pride isn’t the type to let him give in. 

So no, Mickey prefers walking. Every step stings and he’s most likely wearing a hole in the bottom of his only pair of boots but he’ll get there. Eventually. 

The path nearing the highway is all dirt, midway through construction and the dust collects on the new clothes gifted to him by Ned. Just the thought creates a crawl up his spine and he’s back again, thinking about it. Thinking about Ian with that poor excuse for a man, if he could even be called one. 

Mickey wasn’t a smart man, never considered himself one. Maybe he talked like a delinquent, acted like a thug, fought like a criminal, and treated people different from him like shit, but Mickey knew when something was wrong. 

Being - like  _ that _ , was one thing. The idea was ingrained in him as wrong, only acceptable when he had no other choice. Mickey spent seven years worth of nights with men, in ways that he’d never speak of but he wasn’t like  _ that _ . He’d never be like that. 

But the way Ned watched Ian, mapped out the lines of his body, reminded Mickey of when his brothers saw a woman they wanted to hit. 

Predatory. 

Selfish. 

It was enough to make him spit venom and that wasn’t because of Ian, not at all - Mickey just knew when something was wrong. He wasn’t smart but he wasn’t stupid. And Mickey left Ian there, left him to that guy and maybe his stomach lurched with the tiniest hint of guilt. The more he thought about it, the more his regret appeared to wash over him but it didn’t last long. Not when the next few seconds brought him back to reality. 

“Looking for a ride?”

The voice hits him and Mickey nearly stumbles, kicking up a load of gravel into his own face. He sputters, waving around at the dust cloud and turns back to the car that’s now pulled up at his side. The window is rolled down and it’s slowed down to a crawl, a familiar grinning face in the driver’s seat. Mickey almost can’t believe it, his nerves so on edge that they’re practically screaming. 

“Sandy?” He mutters as the car stops right next to him and his cousin slides her sunglasses down her nose, that smile on her face as bright as the day she picked him up. 

It doesn’t even feel like it’s been almost four days since she left him in the dirt and his first gut reaction is to smile, be happy to see her, anything other than the anger that flares up and causes him to scowl in her face. All musings of regret fly out of the window when he remembers where he is and why he’s there in the first place. 

Sandy noticeably flinches at his reaction and she ducks her head, “Mickey.”

Mickey scoffs and tugs his bag higher on his shoulder, kicking up more dirt as he storms off. It’s a futile attempt at avoiding the situation - since they both know the plan to walk back to Chicago is stupid - but the childish defiance in him propels him forward. He wipes sweat from his brow, the sun rays only adding to the boiling of his blood and making his whole body feel like it’s about to combust. 

“Oh come on, Mickey. I had no choice!” Sandy calls out and the car starts moving again, only needing a snail’s pace to keep up with him and his hopelessly short legs. 

“Fuck off.”

Mickey never treats Sandy this way. He never snaps at her, never really found a reason to, but the betrayal piled up over the last few days. It’s trapped him in a web of frustration and seeing Sandy now acting like nothing’s happened, sends a wave of pain through the back of his head. His temples throb as the sweat rolls down the back of his neck, steam coming off his skin. 

“Oh real nice, I drove back from Chicago for you.” She tells him and Mickey can hear it in her words - like he should be grateful. 

Well a big ‘ _ fuck you _ ’ to that, too. 

“I could have gotten back on my fucking own.” He bites back at her, spitting out every syllable as he stops again and digs his heels into the soft earth underneath him. 

Sandy takes the blows on the chin, doesn’t flinch again and just sighs, running a hand through her already tousled hair. “Is that why you’re walking? So you’ll make it back by next year?”

Mickey nearly chomps down on his tongue, growling under his breath as he flings the map in a fit, a fist curling up at his side. She doesn’t know how this shit feels, how it feels to be constantly alone. Mickey stops himself from going any further because Sandy doesn’t know - she wouldn’t understand. Instead, his thoughts roll to the obvious question in hopes that the answer he gets isn’t the one he doesn’t want to hear. 

“How’d you find me?” 

Sandy pauses, pushing her lips together as she thinks about it. “A little birdie told me. Now, could you please get the fuck in the car?” 

That’s code for knowing but not wanting to tell him. It’s not the first time she’s pulled that in her lifetime.

The lack of an answer makes Mickey huff and he stands there, hoping for the second time this trip that the universe might take pity on him by putting him out of his misery. “How about you tell me what you did, huh? Where is it?”

The drugs. The fucking drugs. 

Sandy looks away from him again and out toward the open road, gnawing on her bottom lip. “I’m having someone move it for me.” She quickly adds more to her statement once she sees the way Mickey’s face contorts into something resembling complete anguish. “I did it so you won’t get in any trouble. Sorry for giving a shit.” 

The thing about Sandy is that she acted more impulsively than the rest of them. She never weighed out her options. Every time Mickey told her to hold on, to make a fucking plan, Sandy ignored him and went with her gut, flew by the seat of her pants. She was go go go, a creature of habit - all of which happened to be bad ones. If she thought Mickey was stupid for accepting Svetlana’s offer, then she truly didn’t understand what she’d just done. 

And even then, Mickey knew there was more loyalty in one single cell of hers than in anyone in the whole Milkovich family. 

Mickey pressed his thumb and pointer finger into his eyes and blew out a weighty breath. “How about you just never fucking help me again? How about that?”

Sandy’s fingers fiddle with the leather around the steering wheel as she leans forward, her head angling to get a better view of Mickey. “They want the money. That’s the whole reason for the drugs, right? So instead of you getting caught your first day on parole with a pound of fucking  _ coke _ , I bring in a middle man to get the money and we give it to Comrade Whats Her Name. It’s easy.” 

The explanation borderlines on rational, touches on being a solid plan but to Mickey, it sounds like the opposite of  _ easy _ .

“You’re stupid, you know that?”

Sandy has the audacity to giggle, wiggling her brows as she scoots over to unlock the door for Mickey. “It’s genetic.”

The forgiveness will kick in, Mickey knows it will because she’s his family, his cousin, his sister but the shit he’s sitting on continues to grow exponentially and he can’t ignore that. He can’t forget that so easily. He begrudgingly gets in the car, tosses his bag into the back seat where his stuff still is but - Ian’s isn’t. It waits to hit him and he blinks, turning to Sandy as he puts on his seatbelt. He almost asks her where it is but opts out, leaving it unanswered and tells her he’s only going because his parole depends on it. 

Sandy gives him that fucking giggle again but when Mickey hands back nothing in response, she falls quiet. She nods and starts the car off again, taking the exit to the highway and there they are, back at it again. The whole trip was meant to be this way, Mickey’s sure of it but Sandy went and threw them into a loop - a mess that never should have been created. 

But that’s done. That part is over. 

It’s only an hour and a half ride to Des Moines and Sandy miraculously stays silent for most of it. It’s only when the signs start marking the exits for Des Moines that she decides to speak, choosing the very exact topic Mickey wants to avoid. 

“You gonna tell me why he isn’t with you?”

Mickey’s teeth grind together and he narrows his eyes at her, sharp like daggers. “I’m not his babysitter. You left him with me.”

“Technically, but I like him. I thought maybe you were warming up to him too.” Sandy mumbles like she’s unsure whether saying that is a good idea. News flash, it isn’t. 

Mickey’s voice gets more rough, his throat sore from not speaking in so long or with such frustration. “We don’t fucking know him.”

“Yeah, guess so.” Sandy purses her lips at that, her hands sliding along the steering wheel. It’s like she has more to say, something hanging on the edge but if she doesn’t say it, Mickey isn’t going to push her to. 

There’s only one more city until Chicago and now, Mickey is craving the shackles of a day to day life - the uncertainty of freedom weighing too heavy on his chest. 

The last exit to Des Moines is the one Sandy takes, not having to look at her map to know exactly where they’re going. He wonders what else she’s gotten up to, thinks about the things he’s too scared to tell her in the moment. Sandy takes the car down a boulevard that’s much like the ones back in Grand Junction. All brick lined pavement and potted plants. It’s nice but nice in the way that Mickey doesn’t trust. 

They pull up to a motel at the side of the road, one of those quickie type places that stick out within the nicer neighborhoods. They’re all created for the degenerates that every city has but tries desperately to hide. Mickey shifts uncomfortably, an ominous sensation making the air around him thick and hard to breathe in. 

They turn past the entrance and into the parking lot, only a couple of cars settled into spots. Most of them are pretty average, nothing to turn his nose up at but there’s one in particular that shimmers in the midday sun. Mickey presses forward, one hand on the dashboard as he squints to make sure he’s not hallucinating. The seconds tick by and Mickey blinks - once, twice, three times. He recognizes that license plate, that stench of sophistication. 

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

His cousin merely drives forward, a hint of guilt in the way she pouts and guides the Camaro into the spot next to the offensive Mercedes. Out of all the people littering the midwest - all the criminals, do gooders, and simpletons - Ian Gallagher is the one person Mickey can’t seem to shake. Just when he had gotten rid of him, too. 

“Surprise. Say hello to my little birdie.” Sandy chuckles but it’s weak and not full of actual humor. It’s another sad happenstance, a poor blip of coincidence - another big fuck you from the universe. 

“No. Fuck no.” Mickey bites, putting his hand on the steering wheel as if that will stop her from staying here. 

She stomps her foot into the cushioning at her feet and puts a firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing in a way that actually hurts. “Mickey, he found our phone number in Chicago and called me. Doesn’t that count for something?”

His answer is simple. “No.”

“You’re an idiot.” Sandy takes her hand off him and gets the keys out of ignition, clamoring out of the car with little regard for what else Mickey might say. “We don’t have to stay long but I’m hungry and I think you should still talk to him.”

Mickey flips her his middle finger before snatching her pack of cigarettes off the middle console and gesturing with it. “Good thing I don’t take orders from you.” 

She slams the door in his face, flips him the bird right back and heads through the parking lot to a set of rooms right next to each other. “Come or rot, clown!” She yells at him from a distance and Mickey really considers rotting. 

For good measure, Mickey waits exactly five minutes before getting out of the car and slams the door so hard that the windows vibrate. He wants no part in this, none at all so he walks to the door with the most disgusted look he can muster. It’s petty and he knows it but it’s better than the violent alternative. Thankfully Sandy answers the door and she takes him by the shirt, dragging him into the room. 

“He’s in the bathroom.” She tells Mickey as she drags him over to the bed, flinging him down on it like a rag doll. “I’m going to get a burger and you’re going to stay here like a good boy. When I come back, we can go or - whatever you decide, yeah?” Adding insult to injury, she pats the top of his head and quickly backs out of the room right as the toilet flushes. 

Mickey is tempted to follow after her. Maybe if he throws a tantrum over it then Sandy will have no choice but to leave things unresolved. He’s frozen though, shocked into place by the turning of a doorknob and the creaking open of the bathroom door.

Ian clearly isn’t expecting to see him right in that moment because he runs into the side of the door, muttering a string of curses. His cheeks flare red and he rubs at the back of his neck, eyes eventually finding their way to Mickey’s. 

Mickey diverts his gaze and notes the bags in the room - Ian’s new and old one, Ned’s fancy leather suitcase. Best guess is Ned is off doing work shit, has no idea Mickey’s here and it’s for the best when he thinks about it. His boots shuffle over the shag carpeting that covers the whole room and he can smell the dust wafting off the mattress, all too ordinary for Ned so it must have been Ian’s idea. 

“Did you get my note?” Ian asks, his voice a lot smaller than the boisterous laughter Mickey got so used to. 

Mickey gets up from his spot on the bed with a grunt, displeased and uncomfortable. He chews briefly on the tip of his thumb, mocking Ian with a scoff. “Yeah, I got it.”

“And you still left.” 

He hates how Ian sounds hurt by it. Hates how it sounds like he expected more from Mickey. It proves how little Ian really knows about him, no amount of days or hours or time spent hijacking cars or exploring random cities was going to change that. 

“And? You got a good deal out of it. Good for you.”

Ian moves closer, not too close but close enough that Mickey catches the downwind of his cologne and it clouds his brain. 

“I was trying to be a good guy, Mickey.” Ian tells him and when Mickey meets his gaze, he sees the pity in them or what he thinks is pity. “If you didn’t want my help, at least you’d have Sandy’s.”

It’s enough to set him off, his nails digging into his palms because he doesn’t need pity from another down on his luck Southside kid. “I didn’t ask you to.” He points a finger at him, tempted to poke it into his chest. “And my cousin didn’t either. We don’t owe you shit.”

Ian gapes at him. “Look, I’m not saying you owe me. I just thought -,”

Thought. Mickey thought plenty too. Thought about a normal life, thought about having less problems, thought about having some peace of mind when he closes his eyes but we all think wrong. We’re very rarely right about the course of our lives. 

When he starts up again, a vein on the side of his neck threatens to flare and he reminds himself that Ian is another nobody, another passing thought. It doesn’t matter what he says to him. “Thought what? We don’t fucking know each other.” The words from earlier come back up though more aggressive and out of touch. “I don’t know what you  _ thought _ , but stay out of my fucking business.” 

The words render Ian silent and he stares at him before turning his gaze down to the floor. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek in what Mickey thinks is shame, maybe now Ian is feeling regret too. Whatever it is, Mickey isn’t interested in entertaining it anymore. The mundane, quiet life he wants is waiting for him. 

Stepping back, Mickey turns his back on Ian and goes to the door but he stops short at the way Ian says his name. 

“Mickey.”

He says nothing, just stands still and gives Ian that single last drop of his time. The final grain of sand in the hourglass. That’s all he’ll give him to pay him back. 

“For what it’s worth, I had fun.”

Yeah, so did he.

But that’s not what he says, his mouth disconnecting from his emotions and creating another wall - invisible bricks in the form of words. “Save it, Gallagher. Pretty sure you’re never gonna see me again.”

Mickey hears Ian intake a breath like he’s about to speak again but he leaves him unheard again, opening the door to the motel room and shutting it in his face. He refuses to look back as he makes his way to the car, leaning against the hood as he lights up a cigarette. His fingers tremble but he can’t pinpoint which emotion is behind it. All he knows is that he wants to go home. 

For once, Mickey craves Chicago. 

The minutes tick by slowly, painfully so, but Sandy eventually comes back from a burger joint across the street with two bags curled up in her arms. Her eyes flicker between Mickey and the motel room door, her lips turning down into an over exaggerated frown. She needs no explicit details to know it didn’t go the way she planned. 

And Mickey knows that look. It’s one that she’s imposed on him since they were kids. She’s itching to scold him, to force his hand and make him go back in there, do anything else other than leave things that way with Ian. But her loyalty is a hard deal to break and whether she likes it or not, she’ll always side with Mickey. 

Sandy gives the room one more look and shoves the food toward Mickey’s chest, crunching the paper bag and its contents against him. “Eat something. You look sick.” Her tone hits on defeated but also teasing as she slaps the side of his cheek lightly. “You ready to go home?”

Mickey pauses, taking the bags in his hands and he glances at the room out of the corner of his eye. Once he’s back in Chicago, the events of the last few days will be nothing but a blur. A mark on his past that he’ll look back on every now and then, get a good chuckle out of on his rough days. But it’s not meaningful. In a series of unfortunate events that make up Mickey’s life, one chance encounter on the road home isn’t going to change him. 

So he nods, opening the door to the Camaro with five hours left until Canaryville and nothing left to lose. 

“Yeah - let’s go home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's the end of the roadtrip! butttt I wouldn't say that's the last you'll see of them in a car. That being said, I did my best with locations and times and general math but if anything catches your eye as wrong, let me know! I'm aiming again to have the next chapter out in a week so I'll see you all then! But hey if anyone ever wants to talk or has something to say that won't fit in a comment, don't hesitate to message me <3
> 
> come talk to me at:  
> [@s11mikhailo](https://twitter.com/s11mikhailo) \- twitter // [xgoldendays](https://xgoldendays.tumblr.com) \- tumblr


	9. The Boys Are Back In Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another week, another update. let's hope this momentum can keep on going because it's about to get interesting and I'm excited to share with you all! 
> 
> always the biggest of thanks to my dearest friends:[willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse), [vic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/floristmick), and [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor) I love you all so much!

Out of all the cities in the world, there’s not one quite like Chicago. 

For all that Mickey tried to detach himself from its confines over the years, there was something about the city that was ingrained so deeply in his veins that coming home - it felt like reconnecting with a part of himself. 

Sandy drives the whole seven hours back to their hometown in one straight shot, barely stopping for anything other than piss poor sandwiches and a couple of bathroom breaks. She makes it back a whole day ahead of schedule and Mickey knows she’d rather be on the road, would rather be free of this place but she’s just as tied to it as he is. There’s unfortunately too many chains holding them to the Southside and maybe there always will be. 

The highway loops right through downtown and Mickey presses closer to the window as the buildings come into view. It’s all high rises, big business skyscrapers extending up to the clouds. This is the Chicago that people from the outside know. They know the big city, the flash, the middle class going to their 9 to 5. Mickey’s barely ever been on that side of town. He has no business pretending he belongs to a world like that.

The pictures in the pamphlets that line the counters at the ‘Welcome to Illinois’ center, don’t show where Mickey is going. They don’t show the back of the yards, the grit and grime, the broken down houses, the poverty. That’s not what they want people to see. Mickey is not the person that people want to see. Still, Mickey watches the buildings come through the clouds and into the sunlight, looming as Sandy goes past exit by exit.

The cityscape rolls by at high speed, eventually disappearing behind them as they take the exit toward the south. Mickey grips the handle of the car door and he can feel his palms gathering sweat as the niceties of the Chicago Loop fade away. The farther away they go, the more the area breaks down. First it’s just a missing coat of paint on a few buildings, some piled up trash but then it changes — becomes houses with no doors, broken windows, torn up roofs, chain link fences, the homeless sleeping on benches, people arguing in alleyways. It becomes the Southside in all of its glory, in all of its depravity. 

Mickey moves back from the window then, no longer mesmerized by his surroundings. It’s shockingly familiar and both worrying that over the course of seven years, not much has changed at all. He catches a few people he recognizes vaguely, men he’s probably broken the nose of, others he might have seen in juvie. They’re all older but they haven’t changed, they’ve become the Southside and the Southside’s become them.

Once upon a time, it was exactly what Mickey wanted to escape, but now it’s the only thing that makes sense. 

It’s only the morning of the 18th when they reach their old stomping grounds. They take a right onto Homan and Mickey gets that rush of sickness in his guts. It’s exactly the same, maybe some extra weeds here and there but most of it is straight out of his last known memory of the place. Sandy keeps sneaking glances at him every few seconds and Mickey is tempted to tell her to stop worrying. 

He’s _fine,_ everything’s _fine_. It’s not as if it’s been eight years since he came near this place. 

It’s only five minutes later that Sandy takes a right turn and Mickey becomes paralyzed, his windpipe becoming a tight knot that suffocates him. It’s their street - the street Mickey used to walk down every day on his way to the Kash & Grab or where Mandy beat up her first boyfriend. It’s that damn street where his dad spilledt his blood more than once, where he last saw his mom. It takes another few seconds and that damn house comes into view, one of the shittiest ones on the block and Mickey swears he stops breathing. 

Sandy’s reluctant — he can tell — but she stops the car right in front of it. In front of that fucking house with its overgrown weeds, trash piles in the yard, and the windows that are still cracked from where Terry threw beer bottles when he was drunk. It makes him nauseous to look at it, a crawl of panic making its way up his spine. 

“Just gonna grab your stuff, alright? Five minutes.” Sandy tells him and Mickey only stares blankly, triggering her to continue. “He’s not home, Mick. He’s on a run.”

He nods, though he’s not really listening, the words float in and out of him and do nothing to soothe the thrumming in his head

Sandy pats his shoulder once and leaves the car running when she gets out, taking the stairs up to the house two at a time. He watches her for only a moment before it’s too much and he rests his head against the seat in an effort to catch his breath. It comes to him all at once, makes his heart race and his head dizzy. He feels it all at once for the first time in a long time. More than he did with the cops, more than all those days in prison. 

Fear.

It’s an eternity unil Sandy comes back, dragging a trash bag behind her that she throws into the backseat with a grunt. “I tried to keep most of it but you know how it is.” She explains, her hair falls into her face as she gets into the driver’s seat again. “Eight years is a long time.”

Yeah. No shit.

When Mickey doesn’t answer her, Sandy doesn’t push it and heads off again but this time in the opposite direction. She already told him about the place that she got him — a sweet arrangement in a place that’s far enough away that he won’t run into Terry but close enough to all the places in the Southside and a hop away from the L. And could he complain? Not really, not when felons barely got street corners to perch on, let alone whole apartments. 

The drive’s a good twenty minutes and Sandy starts her humming again, tapping her fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel. The Camaro takes a turn into another shit neighborhood with an old Chinese restaurant on the corner and a bar with flickering lights where he can hear the gangs of men yelling already. It’s not worse than anywhere else so he doesn’t bat an eyelash when Sandy pulls up to a random white colored building down the street, a single blip among the patches of grass. 

Sandy parks on the street and turns off the car, leaning over to point at the place. “I talked to the couple living in the complex over. Said you can have it for a couple hundred a month as long as you don’t cause trouble. They just need the extra cash.”

There’s a slab of sidewalk that leads around to the back and Mickey can just barely see the door but it’s the same off white that’s barely clinging to the cracks in the wood. It’s not much bigger than a couple of bedrooms but it’s his. Mickey’s new escape. 

“No catch?”

  
Sandy shakes her head, clapping his shoulder again as she gets out and yanks Mickey’s stuff out of the back. “Nope. It’s not the Ritz but you’ll get hot water and a bed, working fridge.” She nudges him with the bag to get him moving, smiling somewhat. “Better than nothing.”

Better than staying at the house.

Mickey gives in and gets out, grabbing his duffle bag so Sandy isn’t forced to carry all his shit for him. He’s pissed at her but not that pissed. The pair carry all the remnants of Mickey’s life to the front door and Sandy digs around in the pocket of her bell bottoms for the key. It opens with a bit of a dust cloud puffing from the hinges and the door swings loosely until it collides with the side wall. 

His cousin goes in ahead of him and it gives Mickey enough time to get a good look at the place. The walls are white like the rest of the space, not blinding enough when it contrasts with the shit brown curtains over the window or the dirty green shag carpeting that lines the floor. There’s a single couch pushed up against one side just across from the kitchen - made up of a single island, a fridge, and stove burner. 

It’s not much but it’s going to have to become home. 

Sandy waves a hand in front of Mickey’s face and he’s suddenly aware that he wasn’t listening to a single word she was saying. 

“I said the toilet’s kind of shit so you’ll have to flush twice and hot water is kinda hit or miss but - you’re welcome. I gave that Seaver guy the address already.”

“Yeah. Not bad.” Mickey mumbles as he dumps his bag on the couch, a jacket falling out of the open end of the zipper. 

They stay in silence for a good while and Sandy uses that time to move his things around, tacks some take out menus and magnets up on his fridge. She got him water, some food for the week, basically set it all up for him while he was still hauling ass in Grand Junction. 

And Mickey doesn’t know how to even begin to repay her. Maybe he doesn’t have to, given the problems she’s created. Maybe that’s why she did all this to make it up to him. All he knows is forgiveness isn’t that easy. Not even with family. 

A half hour later and she clears the air, wiping her hands on her pants as she finishes up. “You want me to give you a ride tomorrow?” Sandy asks as she pulls a beer out of the fridge and cracks it open. 

Mickey rests his body back on the couch and stares up at the faint cracks in the ceiling. “Nah, gotta relearn the train route anyway.”

“If you say so. I’ll come over after, make lunch or something.” Sandy tells him, pushing the beer into one of his hands. 

“Don’t you have work to do?” Mickey can sense her rolling her eyes at him and he shrugs, letting the lukewarm liquid slide down his throat. It's comforting almost instantly, giving him an invisible pat on the back for making it this far. “And the fucking beer’s warm.”

“I work at a roller rink, Mick. It’s not exactly prime time. And the fridge is broken. Beggars can’t be choosers, buddy.”

“Great.” He interjects before she can continue, another swig down his gullet for good measure. “I’ve got it.”

Sandy moves his legs out of the way and sits on the other end of the couch, putting her feet up on the old coffee table. “See, you say that but it’s a different time. It’s not the sixties anymore.”

“I said I got it.”

“Fine. But I’m coming by to check in on you whenever I want so don’t cry about it.” She makes a point to lean over and ruffle his hair, making the short ends stand up. Mickey swats at her once but it has no ill will behind it because it’s nice - nice that she cares. 

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Now I’m making dinner so shut up. Watch some TV.” She gets up to turn the dial on a set that’s basically a century old but the picture comes in clear enough, even if the sound is more static than anything. 

The same damn Jaws trailer plays again like the countless times in the hotel room and Mickey groans. His meeting with Larry is less than a day away and the monotony of life is already catching up to him quick. 

\---

Sandy leaves around midnight after a few beers and some shitty meatloaf thing she whipped up for the pair of them. She tells him to be good as if he doesn’t already know that but she conveniently seems to forget what’s looming over them. There’s no mention of the drugs or the money, how much of it there is, but Mickey knows. He can do the math and that much coke runs a couple grand at least if not more. That kind of money in a house with Terry spells trouble and Mickey is deep in the shit. 

He resolves to corner her about it sooner rather than later because leaving it alone is just not an option. The last thing Mickey needs, the one thing that would make the whole transition harder is a Russian showing up at his door demanding his fingers. And Mickey - well Mickey can’t let Sandy go down for this. Not in this fucking lifetime. 

If only it had been Terry instead of them. 

Mickey gets up early the next morning, timing his routine perfectly so that he’s out the door by 9am. He gets the address for the Corrections office out of the phone book, scribbling it on a piece of paper that he tucks into his front pocket for safe keeping. 

It’s strange, moving around his own place. He’s never experienced his own space before now. Hell, his old bedroom connected to one of the only working bathrooms. He grew accustomed to doing everything in front of an audience in prison. Privacy and solitary weren’t luxuries he knew very well, if at all. Mickey nearly forgets his own keys on his way out, never having a place to need keys for but he snatches them off the counter at the last moment. 

And then it’s more of the same. Out of the apartment and onto the L. Meetings with his parole officer, work, and home. He knows the drill, remembers it from all the times his brothers did the same thing. Routines aren’t hard. Prison was a giant routine with harsher punishment. 

With the address on him, Mickey heads downtown and that same feeling, from when he first arrived back home, washes over him again. He doesn’t belong out here. This isn’t his place. But when you’re a felon, maybe that’s what they want. They want you to feel the sting of disconnection and isolation because of what you did. 

The train gets to one of its last stops and Mickey heads out, extremely aware that he’s almost traveled to another world entirely. The buildings cast a shadow over him, blocking the morning daylight, shielding him while he walks down to the government section of town. It’s familiar in a far off way - all those times Iggy or Colin had to report back to their officers or show up in court. It’s looming and ominous, built for intimidation. 

The building he’s heading to is far off to one side and most of the people filtering in are just like Mickey. Not the best dressed, holes in their shoes, and maybe twenty bucks to their name. They all did something to label them as outcasts and now Mickey was back to being one of them. 

Centering himself, Mickey waits a beat and then heads inside where soft elevator type music plays through the lobby speakers. It’s all soft beige and rich browns, patterned chairs for people to sit in while they wait for another meeting in a string of over a hundred. Mickey walks up to the first counter where a woman balances her glasses on the tip of her nose, scratching her pen along a legal pad. 

“Name?” 

“Mickey Milkovich. Mikhailo.” He corrects himself, always cringing when it comes to saying his legal name. 

The woman at the desk peers up at him with a hum and points to a nearby open chair. “Take a seat. Mr. Seaver will be with you shortly.”

Mickey thinks to ask her how she knew who he was assigned to but he shuts up and does as she says, sitting down in the plump armchair. He reaches for a magazine, some kind of housekeeping garbage, and mindlessly flips through it without actually reading a single word. 

He shouldn’t be nervous. Larry sounded like a decent guy on the phone but people are never what they appear to be. Everyone’s capable of letting people down. Mickey wipes his palms on his jeans and exhales, letting the magazine sit in his lap once he’s done with it. 

The clock ticks for a few more rounds and then the woman’s voice chimes in again. “Your turn, Milkovich.” 

Mickey pushes off from the chair and makes a beeline for the open office door, and as he gets closer he can hear music playing from within it. Is that … disco? 

A man sits at the desk inside, thrumming away to the tune as he stacks files at least a good foot high on the left side of the table top. He only pays attention when Mickey clears his throat to announce his presence. 

“Mickey, welcome!” Larry claps his hands, wildly gesturing to the seat across from him. “Sit, sit! I’m so glad you made it.”

This is a first. Someone besides Sandy being happy to see him. 

Mickey obliges though, plopping himself down with a dull thud. “Thanks. Um, nice to meet you.” He’s reluctant in his tone, not sure what he’s meant to do or say to make this whole thing go by faster. 

“Wonderful to meet you!” Larry extends a hand that forcibly attacks Mickey’s with a firm handshake, nearly taking his shoulder out of its socket. “Not to worry, all formalities today. Just some paperwork and your job assignment. Things like that.” 

The more Mickey watches him, the more outdated Larry becomes. He’s a man molded by the fifties - his hair coiffed and smooth - with the perky cadence of the era. It’s kind of endearing when Mickey thinks about it. He didn’t grow up around men like this, ones who cared about something other than money. 

He filters through some stacks to pull out a handful of documents that he lays in front of Mickey with a decorative pen placed on top. 

“Sign away, my boy. And read it, of course.” Larry laughs at his own brand of humor while Mickey hovers over the pages in an attempt to retain all the information. “How are you feeling? Happy to be home?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s - okay.”

“Just okay?” Larry asks again, his eyes widening.

Mickey can’t think of a time he was ever truly more than okay so yeah - okay is the right word. “I guess.”

“You know, just a suggestion but if you’re having a hard time expressing yourself, I do have some experience with ventriloquism. Puppets are great barrier breakers.”

He blinks once, twice hoping that Larry is just joking but the too wide grin on his face says otherwise. “I’m good, thanks. Just don’t really got anything to say.”

“And that’s just fine, son! We’ll work on it.”

Larry gathers up the documents once Mickey loops the tail end of his signature one last time and flings them on top of one of the piles. “Perfect. Now for your work assignment.” He muses, laying down a single paper that, among the other paragraphs, has an address handwritten at the top. “You’re due there next week. To give you a little time to settle in.”

Mickey scans it but he can’t place the location off the top of his head. He doesn’t really care what it is, what kind of lowlife job he’ll be doing. Either way, he folds it up and shoves into his front pocket with the other sheet of paper. “Next week, got it. And meetings every Thursday?”

“That’s right! Every Thursday, 10am. We’ll go over your work, home life, things like that.” 

“Great.” Mickey mumbles, resigning himself to what he already knew was bound to come. Another item added to the routine. Just the way he wants it to be. 

And then Larry does something Mickey wasn’t expecting. He reaches across the gap and puts a hand over one of Mickey’s but not in the same way that Ned had done to Ian - no, this is comforting. Fatherly. 

“I know it’s hard. I’ve seen a lot of people come out of the prison system as changed people. Hardened by life but I have a feeling about you, Mickey Milkovich. Don’t let your life pass you by, son. You have a second chance, do what you can with it.” 

The serious but kind tone isn’t lost on Mickey. It’s just - not what he expected. People didn’t say nice things to Mickey for nothing and what did Larry have to gain from being nice to him? Shitty government pay? Hours of paperwork? None of it made any sense. But Mickey lets it sink in, takes the advice and pockets it for later. 

“Thanks,” Mickey tells him with a half smile, a quick quirk of his lips. 

“Not a problem. Just keep your nose clean, will you? But not for me, for yourself.” Larry clarifies, as he goes into more probing questions that Mickey still doesn’t answer. 

But it’s nice to be asked. It’s Larry’s job, he knows that, but much like Sandy, at least he seems to care. He looks Mickey in the eye when he waits for an answer, writes down notes about him, asks him about his favorite foods, how he’s finding the new apartment. It’s what fathers are meant to do — or at least he thinks so. It’s what Terry never did. And when Mickey leaves the office an hour later, he feels lighter on his feet - a nice change of pace from the constant weight pressing against his ribcage.

With a guy like Larry at the helm, at least one part of his life might find itself under control. 

— 

The week after his meeting with Larry goes by in a blur. Mickey fends off Sandy almost every day, telling her he’s fine, he’s eating, he doesn’t need her to do everything for him. He learns how to work his stove, attempts to make mac & cheese on his own and fails. His toilet erupts every few days, gurgling from the toilet paper shoved into it but Mickey finds himself getting used to it. And sometimes late at night, he hears his neighbors bickering about the bills through his paper thin walls but all things considered - Mickey is learning. He’s trying. 

On the following Wednesday afternoon, Mickey digs out the sheet of paper that Larry gave him. It’s filled with guidelines, suggestions, rules for lack of a better word, and an address to his new workplace. From what he knows about the streets, it’s not far by train - maybe a good two or three stops. Call it instinct or muscle memory but the train route comes almost second nature. A few minutes in front of the map bringing it all back. 

There’s too many people on board that they all crush together like sardines and Mickey definitely didn’t miss this. Everyone stinks of sweat and fermenting perfume but who is Mickey to judge? He probably reeks of prison soap and dust bunnies on his years old t-shirt. 

His guess is about right and he gets off four exits later, finding the first difference. The exit to the L is nicer, the stairs actually complete instead of half broken and they’ve installed hand rails that lead all the way down. Funny. The street he comes out on is the one he remembers from the paper so he follows it down a couple of blocks until the numbers get closer to the right one. 

Mickey reads over the piece of paper one more time, maybe two more times to make absolutely sure he found the right place. The diner in front of him is at least fifty years old, the windows barely letting in any light and the door squeaking every time a patron comes in and out but it’s got charm. More charm than the garbage collecting on the street corner or the homeless man pissing in the back alley. The sign above Mickey’s head says ‘Patsy’s Pies’ in big red letters against an obnoxious yellow backing, with the added pleasantry of ‘senior citizen’s discount Wednesdays’ on the marquee a few inches above that. 

Slinging burgers and fucking _pie_ for a living. Typical. 

Well there’s really only two options at this point - go back home, tell Larry he wants another job or suck it up and do that whole ‘don’t knock it until you try it’ thing that people always talk about. He puffs out a breath and pulls the door handle open, the metal feeling corroded and loose under his grip. 

Unlike the diners along the roadside back in the Midwest, no one looks up when Mickey enters. They barely bat an eyelash at him, maybe catching a whiff of Southside on him. Whatever it is, it’s more like home than he’s felt in days and he wonders how he never heard of the place after all his slumming in the back yards. 

He steps up to the register where a woman in her early thirties stands - her curly brown hair up in a high ponytail, pen dangling from her mouth and a handful of bills in her hand as she attempts to count them. 

“Hey, um - the boss around?”

The woman glances up, her brown eyes catching his and she nods, motioning to the back with a flick of her head. Mickey nods his understanding and lets her finish counting, the cash register dinging as she hands the change off to one of the bus boys. Whoever she is, she moves to five different places in a matter of seconds - checking off orders at the window and passing out plates like she’d been doing it her whole life. 

Mickey’s shocked she’s not the one running the joint. 

She gets the last plate into another girl’s hands and then scoots off toward the back behind a wall into a room that’s out of Mickey’s view. No one comes out for a handful of minutes so Mickey takes the nearest stool, putting his elbows up on the counter as he watches the diner clock that hangs just above the coffee pot. 

12:35pm. June 25th, 1975. The start of Mickey’s new life. 

One of the waitresses from earlier sets a cup in front of him and fills it with a fresh pour of coffee. She doesn’t ask if Mickey wants it, just sets in front of him and smiles, telling him that ‘it’ll be a minute.’ He has no idea what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, but free coffee? He’ll take it. 

It gives him time to take it all in, to absorb the place that’s about to be his new standard. The worn out booths, the distinct breeze of cigarette smoke and grease, pictures of famous people that have never been there - it reminds him of what home used to be like. He doesn’t look around at the patrons, doesn’t try to suss out who he knows and who he doesn’t. It’s been too many years - people don’t remember him anymore and that’s probably for the best. 

The mug runs empty about five minutes later and when he turns his head to the side toward the back again, the woman from earlier comes out but she’s followed closely by a man at least ten years her senior. His hand rests on the small of her back until she diverts from him back to her orders and he focuses his attention on Mickey. 

He’s not much taller than Mickey, his hair greying in places and a scruff of at least a couple of days spattering the bottom half of his face. “Sean. Sean Pierce.” The man says as he wipes his hand on the front of his jeans and he reaches for Mickey’s hand, holding it firmly as if to assert his dominance. “Mickey, right? Yeah, Seaver said you’d be showing up soon.” 

“Yeah, that’s me,” Mickey confirms as he stands up, pushing his empty mug to the side. 

“Great. Summer’s my busy time of the year. Need all the hands I can get.”

Mickey just nods, shoving his hands in his pockets and offering up only a shrug. “Not really my choice to be here.”

Sean laughs at that but doesn’t falter as he comes around the other side of the counter, leaning back against it to face Mickey. “It’s not much but we do good business. Sell a couple dozen pies a day. Everyone here’s got a record or knows someone who does, so no one cares what you did or what you didn’t do. Just show up for work, keep your nose clean, and we’ve got no problem.”

All things considered, Mickey knows it’s a sweet deal. He could be like the other guys in the parolee line up, the ones working on the side of the road or cleaning gutters by the river. But Larry got him set up with a cushy job, something regular people do, something respectable. Mickey never did anything respectable before.

“Not really looking to go back to prison so -” Mickey admits, keeping his voice low out of instinct and not because saying the word still makes him cringe. 

“Yeah, he said you seem like a good kid.”

The word ‘kid’ tempts Mickey into rolling his eyes but he holds back the urge. Behaving himself, just like he promised. Giving something new a chance. 

“I’m not going to put you on today since we’re mid lunch but Fiona -” He points to the woman from before, who slithers past them with two plates and a sly smile. “She’ll get you your uniform. Wear jeans or slacks, whatever you're good with getting dirty.” 

It’s simple enough, nothing that takes Mickey wildly out of his comfort zone and considering the serving staff is all women, he’s not too worried about keeping it bubbly for the customers. 

Sean lays a hand down on Mickey’s shoulder and he flinches out of instinct. The other man clicks into it fast and pulls back, an earnest look about him. “It won’t be so bad, kid. You might even like it.” 

He leaves Mickey then and saunters back toward the kitchens, only popping back up through the window to tell him one last thing. “Shift starts at 7am, goes until 4. Don’t be late.”

Mickey nods automatically, awkward now that he’s left standing there alone with an empty coffee mug while the women who work there bustle back and forth. He pauses, already missing the hot burn of the coffee down his throat but he can’t bring himself to stop anyone mid travel path to ask for another. It’s like he’s forgotten every formality, the ways people act around each other, and replaced it with frigid indifference. Clearing his throat, Mickey mutters to himself and makes his exit before anyone stops him, not that he thinks they would. 

The hints of vanilla in the air fades off into smog when he’s back outside and he takes in a sharp breath to regain his bearings. He’s not sure what it is. Maybe it’s how everything is so normal, how he’s being slotted into a world that’s familiar but infinitely strange at the same time but Mickey’s skin refuses to stop crawling with doubt. 

It can’t be this easy to live. 

Instead of taking the L back, Mickey opts to walk around the neighborhood for a while. It’s not exactly sightseeing like it was on the road, but it muffles the voices that are screaming at him that he shouldn’t get used to normalcy. 

People pass by him and most don’t spare him a moment of their time, don’t watch him out of the corner of their eye. When they bump his shoulder, they swear at him or call him an asshole and that’s reality. 

Southside trash forever. 

A guy who has the Russian mafia most likely coming to collect any day now, a cousin with at least a thousand bucks in drug money, brothers that are all pieces of shit, a sister who is God knows where, and a dad that knows he’s back in town. No good job or decent apartment or soft P.O. was going to change the fact that Mickey was no good. That he was plagued by failures. Fucked for life. 

He eventually relents and takes the train back to his apartment, heats up some day old pasta Sandy made before kicking back on the couch with a beer. Some kind of documentary about sharks comes on TV and he only half pays attention to it while he scarfs down his food all alone. Sandy calls him around 11pm, tries to get him to actually talk about his day instead of blowing her off but he mostly does just that. 

He’s four beers deep when his eyes start getting heavy but instead of getting up and going to his new bed - sleeping in his own bed sheets for once - he passes out on the couch. The documentary keeps playing in the background as Mickey curls in on himself, slumbering silently through the whole night.

— 

Mickey’s back aches the next morning and his eyes burn enough to make him want to go back to sleep but the clock on the wall reads 6:30am. Time for his first day. The most miserable groan comes out of his chest as he gets up off the couch, his bones cracking as he walks. He immediately goes about a quick shower, getting the grime from the day before off his skin, and ends up sliding on some simple pair of jeans - ones from his old set of clothes. They’re almost too tight but the time ticks closer and closer to 7am, so it’s this or nothing. 

He grabs a slice of bread to shove in his mouth as he dashes to the L, dodging passersby on his way. It’s the midmorning rush but the L is thankfully on time for once and he squeezes in between a woman reading the newspaper and a man with a briefcase balanced on one knee. It’s a ten minute ride at its worst but he’s cutting it close and tears through the passengers when the door’s open, nearly losing his footing on the stairs. 

Mickey slides right in front of Patsy’s at a cool 6:58am and he stops only briefly to catch his breath, wiping the sweat off his brow. He’s still more or less pulled together but a few strands of hair dangle in his face that he pushes back. Grabbing hold of the door, Mickey steps inside and the cool whoosh of the air conditioning relieves him. The diner itself isn’t very packed yet, maybe a good three or four people at best pouring over their coffee. 

From the counter a voice calls his attention and when he looks, he catches the same woman from the day before. Fiona. 

“Morning. On time for your first day, huh? Good for you.” Fiona laughs and she tosses him a shirt that she grabs from under the counter. It’s grey and has the name of the diner printed on one side. “Go change and meet me back here. I’ll get you settled.”

Mickey nods and heads to the bathroom to get changed. The shirt, amazingly, fits pretty perfectly and when he looks at himself in the mirror, he’s not put off by what he sees. He looks like any other guy, someone who just works for a living - not like a guy who just got out of prison. 

Fiona meets him outside the bathroom and hands him an apron before leading him toward the back. The kitchen distinctly smells like grease, the floor slightly sticky under Mickey’s boots and the couple of guys in there are bumming smokes off each other. 

“Do it outside, guys. Come on, set an example.” Fiona says sternly, waving them off to a door that leads towards the dumpsters. “No smoking inside. Fire hazard and given the old ventilation we’re dealing with, gotta be careful.” 

Then starts the rundown. Fiona shows him where to find the spatulas, where the orders pop up, how to remove the grease trap. It’s simple stuff, things Mickey can do in his sleep. He tries to commit it all to memory, even hyper fixating on the worn red tiles and the burn marks that crawl along the walls. It’s about to be his new view for the foreseeable future. 

“Okay - breakfast rush soon so I’ve gotta get to the front but I’ll set you up with one of my best guys. He’s an old pro.” Fiona puts her hands on her hips, mouth slightly parted as she stands in front of the grill. 

“Yeah, sounds good.”

Fiona’s nice. Pretty. Smart. All things that would get any guy’s attention but Mickey clicks into the sound coming behind her instead - the door to the back being hauled open. They both glance over at the same time and while Fiona smiles at who walks in, Mickey nearly swallows his tongue. 

“Ian. Right on time.” Fiona chuckles as she moves over to Ian, throwing her arm across his shoulders. 

Ian Gallagher. Fiona - Gallagher. Shit. Mickey’s bad fucking memory at work again. 

But Ian. Here. Working at Mickey’s new job. There was no way this wasn’t a bad dream. 

Ian’s face must mirror his own because his pale skin goes over more ghostly white and he gapes, his lips more starkly pink now. Neither of them speak but Mickey and Ian stare at each other, unable to be the first one to break away. 

Luckily Fiona keeps talking, blissfully unaware of what the two men on either side of her are feeling. “This is Mickey. It’s his first day so show him the ropes, yeah?”

“Yeah, course.” Ian breaks the eye contact and smiles up at his older sister — Mickey’s memory of Ian’s ramblings coming back forcefully, unbidden — as one hand reaches out to poke her in the ribs. “I got it, boss.”

Fiona shakes her head in amusement and pushes him lightly, grabbing the notepad in her apron to gesture between the two of them. “Behave, please. No fucking around.” 

“Never.” Ian salutes her and she giggles, disappearing behind the wall and out into the dining room again. 

The air instantly becomes heavier the moment she’s gone and Mickey forces his eyes to trail anywhere but over at Ian. Every muscle in his body is pulled tight and there’s no hiding the awkwardness that seeps out of him. He wonders briefly what would happen if he ran out, pretended to be sick, or punched Ian once just to get it out of his system. None of those options kick in quickly enough and when he glances up, Ian’s inches closer. 

“Hey. Small world again, huh?” Ian says with that same little lift to his voice, that underlying cheery disposition of his. It’s only to counteract the awkwardness, Mickey knows and he hates it. 

He doesn’t know what Ian’s expecting him to do, let alone say. Was he supposed to be happy to see him? Go back to being buddy buddy when the last time he saw him, Mickey blew up in his face? No, he’s not here for Ian. He’s here to do his job. Go about his new normal fucking life. _Talking_ isn’t factored into that. 

“So how do you use this fucking grill thing?” It’s stupid to say and completely bypasses the conversation but Mickey and confrontations that don’t involve fists, never end well. 

“Mickey.”

He ignores him, absentmindedly fiddling with the dials before fixing him with an empty stare. “We here to talk or to work?”

“Can you just give me one minute, asshole?” Ian bites back but he keeps his voice low as the other guys’ voices get louder from the outside. 

Mickey actually can’t believe this guy and his frustration builds in his stomach, threatening to overflow. “ _I’m_ the asshole? Since when?”

“Since you won’t let me fix it.” Ian hisses out and Mickey is two seconds away from full on yelling when the rest of the crew files in, crowding the small kitchen space in a matter of seconds. 

They both take turns politely nodding or greeting the other guys but Mickey’s expression morphs into a scowl the second they’re out of his immediate sight. 

“Fix - Fix fucking what? I’m not your friend,” Mickey asks incredulously.

“You could be if you weren’t such a dick.” 

Fiona pokes her head in and gives the men a once over, right at the perfect time. “Everything good back here?”

Ian fumbles and runs a hand over his head, his smile crooked and out of place. “Yeah, yeah we’re good.”

“Get to work.” She points between the two of them, raising a brow until she’s off again. 

Mickey decides in that moment that he likes Fiona much better than Ian.

“You heard the woman.”

Ian relents because he has no other choice, sighing heavily. Biting their tongue is not easy on either of them - Mickey knows that much, but Ian does it, proceeding to walk Mickey through the very entertaining world of fry cooking. 

Mickey tacks on another problem to his list because he knows this isn’t over. With Ian Gallagher, there’s no way he’ll let it be over. 

It was going to be one long ass fucking summer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and not a cliffhanger, look at me go. i'm on a roll. so is the beginning of act 2, it's going to be a decent chunk of the rest of the story so please let me know what you think, I appreciate all of your feedback!
> 
> come talk to me at:  
> [@s11mikhailo](https://twitter.com/s11mikhailo) \- twitter // [xgoldendays](https://xgoldendays.tumblr.com) \- tumblr


	10. American Pie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, this chapter took me a whole month to get out but I haven't been in the right head space to write up until now. I finally hit my stride again though and got this out - a chapter I'm pretty proud of, if I may say so myself. 
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who reads, leaves kudos, or comments. I love all of you and thank you for your support!!
> 
> shoutouts to my amazing friends: [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse) and [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor) who help me so much with this.

Mickey ponders, for just a second, how long it would take the cops to drag him back to prison if he clocked Ian - just this once. 

They manage to make it through the first half of Mickey’s shift with little to no incident ; the morning rush keeps them busy enough that every time Ian opens his mouth, he immediately has to shut it in favor of making someone’s stack of french toast. But Mickey can feel his eyes burning holes into his skin, making him self conscious of every movement, every intake of breath. They bark at each other over how Mickey flips flapjacks and nearly burning himself on the cast iron, all petty excuses to argue. So by the time 11am rolls around and Fiona pops back in to say he can go on break, Mickey is beyond ecstatic. 

He brushes past Ian, who opens his trap again, but Mickey heads out into the dining area to find a booth toward the back before he can get a word out. It’s mostly clear for now, the only hour where there’s almost no one except a couple stragglers still finishing off their eggs. 

It’s only been a few hours but Mickey is sure he knows the menu like the back of his hand. Prison taught him to remember things, memorize the structure of court proceedings, read a book every now and then. Everyone thought Mickey was stupid when in reality, he was far from it. It wasn’t his fault that words weren’t his strong suit, never easy to use when his thoughts were a constantly tightening knot that Mickey himself couldn’t undo.

One of the girls comes by the table and smiles at him, tapping on the table with her pen. “You know what you want, Mickey? You can usually just ask one of the guys to make it for you but I’ll take your order this time.” Her smile is suspiciously wide, a soft flush on her cheeks. 

Mickey blinks, unaware of what’s so humorous and swipes a hand under his nose. “Just turkey on rye.” He pauses. “Thanks.”

“Totally. It’ll be out in five.”

He chooses not to watch her go, fixating on the wood of the table in front of him. Different things were scrawled into it, some so fresh that he feels the carved dips perfectly under the calloused pads of his fingers. Some were just random scribbles, the mark of someone bored and antsy but among the hatch marks were initials, names, hearts, and dates. Why anyone might want to immortalize their love on pie encrusted wood, was out of his realm of understanding. Without thinking, Mickey traces a heart that’s off in one corner - the initials hardly legible, but the date is over two years ago. 

He can’t imagine loving someone, let alone loving them enough that it made him _that_ stupid.

A plate clinks as it’s nudged into his left arm and Mickey’s gaze drags over the perfectly crafted sandwich until it lands on a freckled hand still gripping the edge of the white porcelain. “Can I sit?” Ian asks, pushing the plate until it rests right in front of Mickey. 

Too much to ask to have a moment of peace, he thinks to himself. “Kinda on my break here so no.”

“Bummer for you because so am I.” Ian slides into the booth, his abnormally long limbs knocking against Mickey’s knees. There it is again - that obnoxious way of digging his way in, of not taking no for an answer. It’s enough to make his arm hair stand up on end. 

“Thought I made it clear back there that I’m not interested.”

Ian presses his lips together as if he’s in on a secret, but the look fades as soon as it appears. “Look, I know you’re mad or whatever, but I was doing the right thing.”

Mickey stays silent, grabbing the pepper shaker and generously heaving spice onto his fries. 

“What else was I supposed to do? Leave you with no money and no ride?” Ian questions, slight frustration behind the syllables. 

Grumbling under his breath, Mickey grabs a ketchup bottle and squirts a glob in one empty corner of his plate. “Weren’t you gonna do that anyway when you planned to leave with grandpa?”

There’s a pause. A brief switch in the air as Ian tucks a hand under his chin. “Is that what this is about? Ned?”

Ned.

The question itself is ridiculous that Mickey refuses to entertain it, taking one half of the sandwich and stuffing it into his mouth. 

It’s not about fucking Ned.

Ian picks up on the cue, huffing while he steals a fry off Mickey’s plate. “I wasn’t going to go with him, you know,” he says. “Not without you.”

The words don’t fully click in, not when the bile licks at the inner lining of his throat at the thought of Ian with Ned. Again. He should be relieved but he isn’t, because Ian did go with him and did fuck knows what. 

“Doesn’t matter now anyway,” Mickey mutters between chews. It’s nearly a bold faced lie because something in his gut tells him it does matter. He just doesn’t know why it does. 

The look on Ian’s face shifts but only fractionally. It’s not disappointment but it’s not acceptance, either. He takes another fry, passing it between his fingers. 

“So we’re good now or are you still gonna give me a hard time?” Ian asks innocently, almost batting his eyelashes at Mickey and his chest heats up under the cotton of his shirt. 

Mickey finishes his bite, brandishing the rest of his sandwich at Ian. “Get out of my booth, Gallagher.”

“That’s not a no,” Ian says with a slight slap to the table, his eyes crinkling with that boyish grin. The booth creaks when he gets up and takes another fry off Mickey’s plate. 

He’s annoying, unbearably so, but even so Mickey can’t focus on anything other than the light hint of pink across Ian’s cheeks, making those damn freckles stand out under the fluorescent lighting. 

It’s not cleared up, not even close, but the tension in his muscles eases as Ian retreats. Mickey rolls the words over and over in his head - not without you - until they settle as a firm lump in his throat, keeping him from eating. 

He pushes the plate away, abandoning it in favor of going outside to cloud his lungs with the sweet distraction of nicotine. And when Mickey hears Ian’s laugh as the front door creaks open, he promptly ignores it. 

The rest of his shift goes by without incident, mostly due to the fact that Ian leaves a whole two hours before Mickey. The second the hand on the clock meets 2pm, Ian’s whipping off his apron and tossing it in a bin at the back of the house. Mickey is mid burger flip when he notices, his brows furrowing. 

Ian catches his gaze as he stuffs his wallet into the front pocket of his slacks. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Nah, day off,” he says in a half mumble, not catching himself before it’s too late. It makes it seem like he cares when he doesn’t. 

“Day off on Thursday? For what?”

Mickey blinks at him, grumbling as he smells his burger patty starting to char at the ends. “Got plans.”

There’s silence and Mickey pictures Ian with a puzzled look in his eye. “Right, yeah. See you Friday then.”

“Uh huh.” Mickey is horribly noncommittal, not taking his eyes off his work even when that same sensation of Ian staring at him comes back full force. 

There’s the slight squeak of a sneaker along the greased floor and when Mickey turns back to slide a freshly prepped burger onto a plate, Ian’s long gone. He breathes out, using the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

From the food window, Fiona pops back up and takes two plates into her arms, balancing them like a true professional. “You good in there, Mickey?” She looks at him earnestly, her lips just barely twitching up. 

Mickey nods sharply, swallowing back that damn lump. “Yeah, great.” 

— 

The next week goes by in a blur.

Mickey’s next meeting with Larry is more of the same as the week before but his parole officer takes advantage of having him cornered to ask him more personal questions while ABBA plays on in the background, the vinyl skipping on his office’s record player. He’s forced to talk about his work life while Larry scratches at his sideburns, nearly dropping mayonnaise from his sub on his dark orange suede suit. Mickey does his best to dodge the more probing inquiries and when Larry whips out a puppet made out of a long white sock, he makes an excuse that he’s feeling sick to scoot his way out of the last half hour of the meeting. 

For all the ways that Larry gets under Mickey’s skin, it’s nothing compared to Ian. It’s different from anything he’s ever experienced before. Someone who refuses to quit, who keeps on prodding, but in the most subtle way with grins and giggles and little jokes that tempt Mickey into amusement. They crowd each other in the small back room for hours on end, day after day. Every time Mickey snaps at him, Ian just finds a way to turn it around, says something charming. Compliments Mickey on his uniform that’s always the same. Tells him he’s a natural in the kitchen. If Mickey didn’t know any better, he’d think Ian wanted something from him but he never asks for anything, not even for a moment of his time. Not since their last relatively serious conversation the week prior. 

And Mickey’s come to notice things about Ian, things he didn’t notice on the road, but he blames that on Ian being one of the people he sees most often. Ian wears the same brown boots every day halfway laced up, the sleeves of his shirt are always rolled up to just under his armpit. He has scars on the palms of his hands, hints of darkness under his eyes, and his jaw tilts slightly to the left in the slightest hint of imperfection. 

He notices things that he’s sure are obvious to everyone but he fixates on them, spends seconds of time watching him. The saddest part is that while Mickey doesn’t want anything to do with him, there are moments where warmth blooms on his cheeks, where his head feels light around Ian, his body tense, and he can’t figure out. Spends hours trying to piece it together only to come up empty. It makes a bout of nausea roll through his body because something about it feels wrong. It feels like something he shouldn’t be doing. 

Mickey keeps waiting for the pin to drop but it hasn’t. It’s always a morning of bumping shoulders, brief contact of hands when they pass a spatula back and forth. It’s gentle sparks on the tips of Mickey’s fingertips and several heaping doses of unfamiliarity. Mickey learns quickly that while he doesn't trust Ian, he doesn’t mind being around him and maybe that’s the part that scares him the most. 

When he’s not at work, Mickey spends most of his time at home, doing almost anything to keep certain redheads out of his thoughts. His clothes are still mostly thrown around despite Sandy’s best efforts to clean up after him when he’s not home. If Mickey had the money, he would have changed the locks by now but he can’t deny that his cousin trying so hard to make things up to him is kind of working. Still, he hasn’t told her about Ian and has no plans to do so. 

He comes home on a Tuesday afternoon to find his fridge stocked, his clothes folded in the closet, and his bag from the trip placed on top of his bed with a note that reads ‘not gonna go through it but clean up, you pig.’ It actually makes him laugh and he tosses the note aside, leaving the bag yet again while he goes to make dinner for himself. It’s just another ready to eat meal, something that looks roughly like meatloaf or maybe turkey, and he slaps it into the oven. Food is the last thing Mickey is about to be picky about, years of eating the same slop taught him as much. He sets the timer for twenty minutes before making his way back to the room to finally tear into that damn bag. 

It’s been abandoned by his couch for the last two weeks. There’s nothing in it that he’s really needed — some dirty socks and the t-shirt he got back in Vegas — and he tosses those in the hamper to wash later. In one corner of the bag though, a sleeve sticks out and Mickey yanks at it, not recognizing the fabric right off the bat. It takes pulling it all the way out and unfurling it for Mickey to realize exactly where it’s from, or rather who. His mouth goes dry as he runs his hands over the fabric, the size of it obviously too large for his small and stocky frame. 

It’s Ian’s jacket. 

The one he let him borrow on that first day out in Vegas. Maybe it was getting swept up in all the madness that made him forget to give it back — because Mickey never intended to keep it — but seeing it there, that same distinct smell wafting off it, has him choking on air. His own clothes are in the closet — his old jacket from when he was 18 that barely fits and has holes in the elbows, is ready and waiting for him — and yet, Mickey finds himself staring at the leather of Ian’s like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen. 

It’s not new, obviously, but it’s different. It’s better than anything Mickey’s ever owned and he briefly thinks about where Ian got the money for it. If it was a gift or if he saved up tips from the diner to get it before he went on his trip out west. A million questions pop up, one after the other, and it’s a good five minutes until Mickey realizes how stupid this is. 

It’s a jacket. It’s nothing. Who cares where it came from? Who cares what Ian did to get it? Who fucking cares? 

He resolves silently to give it back to him, flinging it into an old wicker chair by his bed where he keeps his work clothes for the next day. If Mickey is going to let this whole thing blow over, he can’t be acting like some fag that keeps a random guy’s jacket. 

Because that’s weird. That’s... not what guys do. 

The timer in the kitchen goes off and it jolts Mickey back to reality, his stomach suddenly rumbling with hunger. He washes his hands to rid himself of the smell of cologne and settles into the dusty cushions of his couch to eat his meatloaf, the stale taste reminding him of where he is. What his reality is. 

Reality is his shitty apartment, his barely passable food, his average ass job. Nothing more, nothing less. 

The next morning, Mickey goes through the same steps as every day. Clean shirt, shower, brushing his teeth, and jamming down some toast with barely passable jelly on it down his throat. The routine soothes him, gives the illusion that Mickey has a grip on his circumstances. It’s not the same as the thrills of the trade but maybe Mickey’s tired of running. A few more weeks and maybe he’d be able to call this a life. 

It’s twenty minutes to his shift and Mickey slips on his shoes, pockets his keys as always, but he pauses, doubling back to his room. It’s still there, the fabric limp against the chair and Mickey sighs when he picks it up, tucking the jacket under his armpit. He carries it with him all the way to the L, drops it into his lap as he takes the usual trip out of Patsy’s. 

He doesn’t think twice about it as he hauls his tired body into the already bustling diner, heading straight for the back room where his locker is. Of course Mickey chose one farthest away from everyone else’s, mostly using it to shove his extra work shirts and a spare pair of trousers. He didn’t have much to his name, after all. 

The locker area is pretty clear except for two or three of his coworkers huddled over a magazine, muttering to themselves about which movie they were going to see on the fourth. The fourth of July. Already. Two weeks back into civilization and not much had happened at all. No plans, no friends, no big news to entertain Sandy with. Hell, even his dad hadn’t come looking for him yet but all things considered, that was a good thing. 

Mickey turns his attention away from the conversation around him and lifts the handle on his locker to get it open. He fumbles with the bulky jacket in his arms, trying to shove it into the small space when a voice startles him. 

“Morning,” Ian says abruptly, heading over to his locker at the other end of the row. He has a bag in his hand, something rattling in it as he moves. 

“Morning,” Mickey mutters back, instantly clutching the jacket close to his chest and shifting his body so his back is to Ian 

Heat floods Mickey’s face and he scrunches his brows together, the pair of them nearly touching as he tries to discreetly pack the jacket into his locker. All the nerve in his body vanishes and he grumbles to himself. 

He’ll just give it to him later. Not right now. Later. 

“So - any plans for the fourth?” Ian’s voice hits him out of nowhere again and Mickey nearly smashes his thumb in the locker door as he scrambles to get it shut. 

“What?” 

Ian’s only a locker away now, his back pressed against the metal and his arms crossed over his chest. He looks smug, all knowing and it’s grating for this time of the day. 

“I asked if you had any plans for the fourth.”

Mickey pushes the locker the rest of the way closed — the jacket having caused it to bulge out — until the lock clicks. “Nah, not really.”

“Cool.” Ian clears his throat, his right hand pushing some loose strands of hair out of his face. “Because I’m having a party at my house.” He pauses to chuckle. “More like drinking and blowing shit up but, if you wanted to come, it might be fun.”

At first, it sounds like Ian’s just messing with him but when Mickey actually looks into his eyes he catches the hint of hopefulness there and he chokes on it. 

“Don’t really party,” he tells him straightforwardly, brushing passed him to get into the kitchen. 

The other guys are already in there barking at each other, messing with the grills and eating bits of the eggs that are already being scrambled on the open flame. Mickey slides in between them, a barrier between him and Ian. 

Mickey grabs an apron off the hanger near the grill and loops it around his waist, tying it a couple of times around his body. 

“Everyone parties.” Ian continues as he slides up next to Mickey, mimicking his actions while their shoulders bump. 

“Not me.”

Ian gawks at him while he fixes his own apron, clearly not satisfied with Mickey’s answer. Thankfully, the clock ticks closer to opening and Sean comes out of the office, Fiona just a few steps behind him. 

“Get some bacon on those grills. We open at five.” Sean’s voice is gruff and commanding but there’s exhaustion in his tone that Mickey easily picks up on. He waves a hand at the group of guys before going out to the front of the house, his keys jingling his grip. 

Fiona watches him for several seconds and when she speaks, her tone is in sharp contrast to Sean’s. “Just do me a favor and don’t burn anything this time. Anyone who manages that gets a free pass when they’re drunk at the Gallagher family party.”

Two of the guys high five and they slap a good pound of bacon on the slab for Ian and Mickey to get to work on. The grease sizzles and splashes up, getting bits of oil on both of their clean gray shirts. 

“Come on, just a couple of hours. My brother’s got a good stash and beer’s free.”

Mickey slides a spatula off one of the hooks, passing it to Ian without so much as glancing at him. “Not interested.”

The man sighs dramatically, dragging half of the bacon to his side and flipping it with one hand. “You said that but the invitation’s open. If you change your mind.”

“Won’t.”

Ian manages to let the subject fade away after that, much to Mickey’s surprise. The morning rush provides them with more than enough to think about — the pair of them working in tandem as orders roll in by the bus load. They manage to knock out most of them without issue except the occasional annoying customer and Mickey moves to do the dishes by the tail end of nine o’ clock. 

He’s pushing in a round when Ian comes in from the dining room, arm full of plates covered in half eaten pancakes and syrup.

“Just drop them in there.” Mickey motions to a sink filled up to the brim with soap, a few mugs floating to the surface. 

Ian does as Mickey tells him but he eyes him while he does it, long enough that it makes Mickey uneasy. 

“You need something?” Mickey snaps and Ian blinks, waving behind him with one hand. 

“Sandy’s here.”

What Ian says takes a second to sink in and the annoyance gurgles in his bloodstream when he hears Sandy’s cackle, perfectly tuned to whatever is playing on the worn out TV in the front. 

“Jesus Christ,” he swears and leaves Ian standing there as he stomps around the corner, his cheeks already turning red. “What are you doing here?”

Sandy’s the same as always — brown hair in haphazard waves by her shoulders and at least a couple days out from being washed. Her legs knock behind the counter, a Led Zeppelin t-shirt pulled over her small frame as she nurses a cup of coffee.

“I know you’ve been avoiding me so I came to get the skinny in person.” She grins as she leans over the counter, her arm sneaking behind it to snatch a piece of pie. It’s missing a healthy chunk from it but Sandy pays no mind to it as she digs in, stuffing her mouth until her cheek bulges. 

Mickey can only stare at her, tempted to rip the fork out of her hand when Sandy starts talking in one big rush, crumbs flying out of her mouth and into her cousin’s face. 

“You two work together and no one tells me, huh? Talk about ungrateful.” 

“Because it’s none of your business.”

Sandy gasps, a hand on her chest as she uses the other to wave her fork at him. “Are you kidding me? It’s definitely my business.” She stabs another piece of pie and shoves it into her mouth with no ounce of shyness. “He looks happy to be working with you.”

Mickey flips her off and steals the offensive plate of pie back, taking it to the back without a word and ignoring the way she hollers after him like a weary toddler. He leaves the plate at the side of the sink where Ian is still parked, taking over the dish work Mickey left behind. 

“Not happy to see her?” Ian asks, clearly amused by the cousins’ antics. 

“Fuck off.”

The men set themselves up for another spat but Fiona interrupts, carrying a few stray plates herself. “Your cousin’s here. You’re good to take your break now, if you want.”

Mickey fights the urge to growl and he’s desperate to say no, hoping he can wait out Sandy and the round of questions he’s likely to get thrown in his face but nothing comes out except a curt nod. 

Fiona doesn’t seem to mind Mickey’s nature — the almost silent way he stalks around and he’s thankful for her in an odd way. She never pushes him, never asks questions, lets Mickey just exist. Not like Ian, who refuses to let him fade into the shadows. 

“Have fun,” Ian teases him and Mickey huffs out a breath as he whips his apron off, discarding it in the bin toward the back. 

Maybe it’s dramatic but Mickey stomps into the dining room again, nearly busting his foot on the bottom of the table as he slides into the booth that Sandy is now occupying. “Do you ever go away?”

His cousin, who now has a sandwich from god knows where, rolls her eyes at him and narrowly misses kicking him in the shin. “Do you ever get bent?”

Mickey hisses at her, stealing half of her sandwich just to be petty. “What the fuck do you want?”

The pair are professionals at going back and forth, speaking so fast and so forcefully that it’s a miracle anyone can understand them. Sandy swats at Mickey’s hand while Mickey chops down on her food, smacking his lips to mimic how his cousin spit in his face earlier. 

“I told you. I’m tired of you avoiding me.”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“You didn’t tell me about Ian.”

“Because it’s not a big deal and that’s not avoiding you.”

“Not a big deal?” Sandy slows down her speech then, smacking a hand on the table. Her look is borderline murderous but she changes it into one of mocking instead. “Okay, so if it’s not a big deal then I guess you’re down to go to Ian’s house.”

Mickey flushes and the bits of sandwich left fall onto the table as his grip loosens on it. “What?”

“He invited me and I said we’d go.”

“Not a chance.”

Sandy smacks her hand down again, standing up a bit to get in Mickey’s face. “Are you really going to live the rest of your life like this? A crotchety old man who let prison completely ruin his life?” She pushes on his chest once, knocking his back against the booth cushioning. “Spare me, Mick, and fucking live a little.” 

He stands up, getting eye level with her and lowering his voice. If they cause a scene, it won’t matter if his job is court ordered or not. “I said no.”

“You’re the biggest idiot I know.” Sandy spits back at him, her brows furrowed. She’ll be mad for now but she won’t hold onto it. Grudges weren’t her forte. Her forte was acting like a fucking baby.

“Yeah.” Mickey leaves her with just that, not wanting to get riled up.

Sandy sits back down and doesn’t speak, usually a sign that she’s disappointed in him. It doesn’t happen very often but when it does, she reminds Mickey of his mom. Those few moments he still remembers of her, at least. That silent way of making him feel guilty without speaking a single word. He tries to shake it off as he goes to the back room, goes about the rest of his day like normal. 

Ian doesn’t bring up the party again and Mickey is pretty sure his extra off-put attitude might have something to do with it. When Ian leaves a few hours later, he doesn’t say goodbye and Mickey tells himself not to think about it. He doesn’t owe Ian anything. 

And when it’s Mickey’s turn to leave, he takes Ian’s jacket out of his locker and brings it back home with him. Leaves it on the same chair from that morning. 

He’ll give it back to him eventually. 

— 

The morning of the fourth is filled with people already outside of his window throwing off firecrackers in the early morning. They have no respect for Mickey, the guy who has to work all damn day and come back to more of their loud shit. It’s just another day to him. Holidays never really meant anything to Mickey, not in his family. Not when the Milkoviches always had something “better” to do with their time. There was no such thing as Christmas or Halloween, no birthdays, no Thanksgiving, and definitely no Fourth of July. The most Mickey ever got from it was when Iggy or Colin gave him a handful of fireworks to set off in the backyard, their dad too drunk to notice the difference between them and gunshots. 

It’s much like everything else in Mickey’s life — something he’s just gotten used to and another thing that won’t change. He takes the train to work and when he gets there, the place is practically a ghost town. There are a few regulars hanging out but the diner is so slow that the guys are in the back handing off a roll of grass between them. Mickey doesn’t join them, isn’t asked to join anyway, and he manages to hide off in the back, smoking a cigarette instead. Sean passes by him but he’s not there to scold him, just tells him to get up when a customer rolls in and Mickey nods, silently thankful. 

Ian and Fiona don’t show up for work that day and it doesn’t surprise him. If the party is as big of a deal as they made it out to be, he wouldn’t be surprised if they took the whole day off to really get in the holiday spirit. The rest of them need the paycheck or have no one to celebrate with and Mickey’s okay with that, he really is. It makes the time go by slowly but he gets to make a few dishes on his own, gets to work his skills on some avocado burger without Ian hovering over his shoulder every few seconds. The other guys don’t talk to him much, mostly keeping it to work related conversations and it really locks down how silent it is without Ian, how he’s the only person there that gets Mickey talking. 

It’s enough to do his head in and by the time his shift is over, Mickey’s full of tension and his body aches for something strong to bury down his feelings with. He dumps his apron, gives Sean a brief wave in goodbye, and heads out to wander the streets. After his meeting with Larry, Sandy did her best to try to convince Mickey to go to the Gallagher party — bribed him with food and cigarettes, brand new bottles of whiskey — but Mickey’s stubborn. Hopelessly stubborn. He’d rather deal with Sandy’s bitching than putting himself deeper into Ian’s life, giving him an inch when Ian was bound to take a mile. 

So he opts for this — the mindless wandering through the nearby streets just by Patsy’s. There are a couple burger joints, a hot dog stand and Mickey takes a couple side streets until he ends up in more familiar territory. It’s not that far from the Milkovich house and he’s hyper aware of his every movement, of every person that walks past him. Maybe Terry doesn’t give a shit about him, maybe he forgot all about his youngest son but Mickey’s not dumb enough to let his guard down over a ‘maybe’. His life depends on never trusting ‘maybe’s. 

A few more blocks and the area becomes so familiar that Mickey stops to survey it, taking in the streets where drunkards and kids are already running up and down with little sparkling sticks. It’s nearly exactly the same as he remembers it and for a moment, Mickey feels like he’s 15 again with his brothers breaking windows at the laundromat or stealing from the convenience store. Overhead, a sign hangs down and Mickey laughs at the worn out piece of wood that says ‘The Alibi’, the same way it did nearly a decade ago. 

Mickey remembers the last time he went to the Alibi.

It’s one of the few memories that’s stayed fresh in his mind from his days in Chicago. It was the day before he and his brothers hitched it out to California to work for the Russians. Terry gathered his three sons at a table, gave them the rundown on the work they were going to do, talked to them like maybe he cared about their well being. He told them not to fuck it up, to keep their heads down, to not get caught. It was almost ironic that Mickey managed to do none of those things. 

The Milkovich men drank most of that afternoon, whiskey and rum poured down their throats like it was water. None of the boys ever tried to stop their dad from drinking. They knew exactly what would happen if they did and sometimes it was worse than whatever came from Terry’s drunken tirades. He was a Ukranian man at heart, only a good decade and a half in the country but he was a rock — unmoving, unchanging, stubbornly unbreakable. His accent became thicker when he drank and his temper got shorter. They all got their fair share of it but Mickey was a target more often than not. 

Mickey never knew why his own father picked him as the punching bag so often. It was always something, though. He was too loud, too soft, too nosey, too questioning. Mickey wasn’t brave enough, smart enough, bold enough. It was the one thing Mickey never thought twice about in his life, that he was not the son his father wanted him to be. He reminded him every day when he tripped him or punched him, called him a fag or a pansy. Mickey learned quickly that to survive as a Milkovich, you had to act like your skin was steel when it was really paper thin. Wear your bruises like badges of honor.

That afternoon turned to night and when Terry lost it for the hundredth time, Mickey took every blow while his brothers watched — too drunk off their own asses to help him. Not that they ever put themselves in the line of fire for him, no. Most Milkoviches watched their own hide and no one else’s. 

So needless to say, the Alibi holds deep-seated memories but it’s the only bar within walking distance and the only one Mickey recognizes. He doesn’t expect anyone to remember him, not after so long. Pulling open the door, Mickey is caught immediately by the overwhelming smell of booze and a haze of smoke that surrounds his head. It’s the same grimy shithole he remembers, his boots sticking to the floor as he walks in. 

A few patrons glance up and some of them stare, their eyes scrutinizing Mickey as he walks up to the edge of the bar and takes a stool, putting his elbows up on the counter. The place is quiet for early evening, some guys passed out on benches while the radio shuffles between songs from where a woman is smacking it and changing stations with a couple turns of a dial. A man stands beside her, wiping off glasses but he doesn't look up, not needing to see Mickey to acknowledge his presence.

“What can I get you?” The guy’s muscular, his shoulders straining in a short sleeved velour shirt, a bandana rolled up and wrapped around his forehead to push his long hair out of his eyes. 

“Whiskey. Neat.” 

The man finally brings himself to lock eyes with Mickey and he’s familiar. At first, Mickey’s unsure if the feeling is mutual but soon the other man’s eyes widen and he bares his teeth behind the thick hair of his beard. “Look what the cat dragged in. You’re Milkovich’s kid, right? The one who got hauled off to prison.” A pause. “Mickey.”

In an instant, the bar quiets down more than it already was — only a few coughs and the scuffle of a chair against the hardwood can be heard. Mickey drops his head down, running a hand across his nose to try to play it cool. The name Milkovich no doubt still holds the same power it did when he was a kid — intimidating, off-putting. That, combined with prison, well everyone could deduce from that exactly who was in the bar with them. 

The woman from before stops fiddling with the dials on the radio and smacks a hand across the man’s chest, muttering a quick ‘Kev, please’ before motioning at him to keep talking.

“What I mean is, um - welcome back, man.” Kev slides the whiskey across the counter, the ice clinking against the side of the glass. “On the house.” 

Mickey watches the golden brown liquid and curls his hand around the cool glass, tipping it slightly toward himself. It’s in him to snap, the dull growling just knocking behind his ribcage at being outed to the bar patrons but he keeps it at bay, all for the sake of free alcohol. “Thanks.”

Kev just nods, grabbing his towel again and using it to lightly smack the side of the woman who has since gone back to the radio. “Come on, V. Pick a station already.”

The woman, V, rolls her eyes, finally settling on a low crooner type song that Mickey’s only heard once or twice, at best, since he’s been out. 

_Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. Nothin', don't mean nothin' hon' if it ain't free, no no._

Mickey brings the glass the rest of the way to his lips and knocks it back, letting the cool liquid work its magic on numbing him from the inside out. It only takes a few seconds and he’s putting the empty cup back on the counter, where Kev waits to refill it for him. It’s only then that Mickey takes stock of who is sitting just a couple stools down from him, nursing his own glass of medicine. The man’s hair is a dark shaggy brown, too long and curly to stay out of his face but Mickey can still see the bridge of his nose, the steely blue of one of his eyes. He isn’t speaking, simply hunched over and steadily ripping pieces of a napkin into tiny bits, building them up in a pile mindlessly. 

A wave of realization follows and Mickey’s world becomes infinitely smaller yet again.

Lip Gallagher. 

There is no denying it. Mickey spent more than one occasion during his school days slamming his knuckles against that same face to ever forget it. They’re the same age, give or take a few months, but something about Lip is withered, worn down. The bags under his eyes mark a hundred sleepless nights and his fingers tremble as he picks up his glass where the ice has melted enough to separate from the alcohol. Mickey wonders if this is how he looks to other people — hollow, blank, a shadow masquerading as a person. 

This isn’t the Lip Gallagher that he remembers.

Lip turns his gaze off his cocktail napkin — maybe sensing the eyes on him — and toward Mickey, dropping his cigarette into a wooden ashtray just beside him. “Congrats... on getting out.” He lifts his glass half heartedly and Mickey stares at it, catches the hints of bruises around his knuckles. 

Mickey pauses, the taste of the whiskey weighing heavy on his tongue. Ian was one thing but Lip — Lip and Mickey had history. Lip remembered the person Mickey used to be. 

“Thanks,” He mutters reluctantly, wishing the alcohol would work faster in his system.

Lip chuckles lowly and the sound is much like his brother’s, light and airy but it’s missing that same carefree catch of actual happiness. “Been a while, Mickey.”

“Yeah, long time.”

“Patsy’s, huh?” Lip points to his shirt, the edge of his glass pressed against his mouth. He finds it amusing, that’s obvious, but he doesn’t show his amusement like Ian does. There’s no laughter following the comment to make it seem less awkward. “They invite you to the party?”

Mickey is tempted to ask how Lip knows but it’s easy enough to put together. The whole of Patsy’s was probably invited, Mickey’s not a special case; he’s not pegging him as special. 

“Not really my thing.”

“I’m just going for the free booze.” It’s another joke and Mickey appreciates Lip’s dry delivery. It’s more in tune with how Mickey takes his humor. He finishes off his glass and Lip speaks again. “You should come.”

Kev comes around and pours more whiskey in Mickey’s glass, putting his two cents in. “Whole block’s going. Gonna be closing up shop early for it.”

“You want me to go to your house?” Mickey asks without thinking because really, Lip had every reason to hate him. A laundry list of reasons in fact. 

Lip shrugs, getting his glass refilled but only halfway and he sighs, not bothering to question it. “Getting kind of old to hold grudges, don’t you think?” His eyes meet Mickey’s again and he’s weary, just like Mickey. “It’s just a party. Not asking you to move in.”

And he’s right. Mickey’s just starting to hate when Gallaghers are right. 

He doesn’t give an answer right away, opting to get more drinks in his system instead. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, both men teetering somewhere between sober and heavily buzzed, but it’s funny how the conversation flows easily between the two of them, how years can change people. Lip’s still the same cocky asshole he remembers but Mickey sees himself finding humor in reminiscing, finding their bar room chatter the most interesting thing that’s happened to him all week. 

So when Lip asks him an hour later if he wants to walk with him, Mickey only hesitates for a second before saying yes.

\--

The Gallagher house is recognizable to anyone and they have Frank Gallagher to thank for that one. The man’s known in the Southside and for nothing positive, just a string of scams and him pissing on nearly every surface from Homan to Madison. Even Mickey knows the place but he had Lip and his weekly beatings to attribute it to. It was one thing to walk past it, beat up a Gallagher in front of it, but going inside was like crossing an invisible line in the sand. 

If he goes in, he’s opening up a door but if he doesn’t, he’s shutting it completely. There’s no telling which one is best for him.

Lip starts up the stairs, or more like wobbles up the stairs, and shouts back at Mickey to follow him, leaving the front door open for him to walk through. He’s frozen there briefly, watches the people that filter in and out from the backyard with bottles of beer and red, white, and blue streamers tied to their wrists. There’s an invisible line in the sand that only Mickey can see. It taunts him, threatens him, reminds him of the consequences. Keeping to his side was the safe choice while going over it meant running the risk of choking, drowning, suffocating on his mistakes. Be blinded by the sand that could kick up in his face or never do anything different. 

And when Mickey puts his foot on the porch, he voluntarily chooses to cross it. 

For such a small house, the place is packed with people and the music is turned up so loudly that it rings in Mickey’s ears. He reacts to it like a stranger, curling in on himself a bit as he walks through the crowd and uses the back of Lip’s head as a guiding marker. Most of the people are out back, including Fiona who he spots first, hanging off of Sean’s arm as they pass a beer between the two of them. 

“Looks like the booze is by the pool. You can sit wherever, do whatever. Have fun, man.” Lip slaps his shoulder half heartedly — a gesture of solidarity, of kindness before leaving Mickey at the back door and heads down the stairs to make a beeline for the drinks. 

It’s so normal that Mickey can’t wrap his mind around it, not all at once. The Southside is a shithole, the biggest one there is, but the way the people celebrate around him, it seems like this is the only place to be. Mickey’s eyes settle on an above ground pool in one corner, filled with neighborhood kids splashing around and a woman with the same red hair as Ian’s, who is trying to keep them all from drowning. She waves her hands and says words he can’t decipher as fireworks go off behind her, crackling loudly enough to drown her out. 

“I call dibs,” Sandy says right by his ear and Mickey jumps, nearly knocking into her as she hovers by the back door alongside him. She bubbles up with laughter, one hand firm on his shoulder. “Look who decided to come.”

“Shut up.” 

“Hey, I won’t say anything. I’m just glad you’re here,” Sandy tells him and pushes a freshly cracked beer bottle into his hand. For once, she means it and just sloppily ruffles his hair as she walks away. “Enjoy it, Mick.” 

His cousin heads toward the pool but on her way, she passes by a group just off to the left. There’s a couple of lawn chairs and a blanket set out, a few kids running back and forth while some of them are sitting and listening. If Mickey strains his hearing, he can hear the light tune of music coming from a guitar but he’s more caught by the man behind it and that causes Mickey to move closer, taking a few steps down so he can hear. 

Ian holds his guitar close to his chest, his fingers moving expertly over the strings to create the perfect tune to a song that Mickey actually knows. He’s played it before in his new place, the melody comforting to him. Not like the overly played disco that everyone’s into. No, the song is more muted, more meaningful, more him. Mickey takes a seat on the last step, a good twenty or thirty feet away but he can still hear Ian’s strumming, still gets a sharp kick to the chest when he starts _singing._

“They caught the last train for the coast the day the music died. And they were singing ‘Bye, bye Miss American Pie’” Ian’s voice is crystal clear, strong and striking. It’s not the best voice in the whole world but something about it hits Mickey like a freight train, makes goosebumps pop up on his arms. He watches how Ian’s face slowly becomes calmer, his eyes closing as he sways to the music and the children that were once screaming find themselves going silent. 

A little girl comes to park herself right at Ian’s feet and she tugs on his pant leg, squeaking ‘Uncle Ian’ while he plays. The man smiles and pauses briefly to pat her head, his face lit up by the ongoing fireworks. He hasn’t noticed Mickey yet and with any luck, he won’t. Mickey wants to be a spectator for this; he wants to hear him. 

“Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry and them good ole boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye singin' ‘this'll be the day that I die’.” Ian brings his gaze up then and he looks past the other people that walk by until his eyes settle on Mickey. The pair connect from across the way and Ian’s lip quirks, his head nodding in acknowledgement as he sings the last line. “This'll be the day that I die.”

Mickey never understood what it meant to find something beautiful. Sure, flowers were nice and sunsets were okay but beautiful? He’s not sure he’s ever known what beauty meant to people. As Ian’s voice fades out though and they break eye contact, it’s the only word that comes to mind.

But then again, maybe that was the alcohol talking. 

After Ian’s song ends and the kids scatter again, he abandons his guitar by the lawn chair and makes his way over to where Mickey’s seated, taking the spot next to him on the bottom stair. There’s a multitude of colors going off above their heads and Mickey’s tension is gone, the worry he had about being there long gone, and he thanks the whiskey for being good to him for another day. He’s not drunk but he’s close to it, his tongue heavy and his head the perfect amount of hazy. 

“You came,” Ian states as he leans back to light a cigarette, gazing up at the same round of fireworks as Mickey. 

It takes him back to the night they sat on that car looking up at a different section of the same sky. Nothing’s changed except a few weeks time and a thousand miles of road but there’s a shift in the air — a different vibration between them.

“Guess so.” Mickey keeps his words short, keeps telling himself that he and Ian can’t be friends even though his list of cons gets smaller by the minute. 

“I’m glad you did. Us Gallaghers throw a mean party,” Ian starts before he’s interrupted, abruptly moving to the far side of the stair. The little girl from earlier runs toward them and squeezes between the pair on her way up the stairs, the redheaded woman from earlier calling her name as she chases her down. The sight makes Ian shake his head and he closes the gap again to hand Mickey the cigarette. 

Mickey takes it between his fingers, bringing it to his lips for a long drag. “This doesn’t make us friends.” But as he says it, there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, a hint of something warm in his expression. 

Another round of fireworks pop above their heads as the smoke from Mickey’s lungs spreads out between them and Ian’s eyes catch every single color, a rainbow of light that Mickey can’t look away from.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mick. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually have something to say at the end of the chapter but I think this one can speak for itself 🥰
> 
> please come talk to me:  
> [xgoldendays](https://xgoldendays.tumblr.com) \- tumblr  
> [xgoldendays](https://curiouscat.qa/xgoldendays) \- curiouscat


	11. You Don't Mess Around With Mickey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my momentum for this is flowing yet again so lets see how many chapters I can knock out before the big bad writer's block comes to trap me yet again. this chapter teeters on some heavy subjects so just to cover my bases - *warning for subtle mentions of HIV, substance abuse, and unwanted sexual advances*
> 
> as always shoutout to:[willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse) and [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor) who are two angels and have no idea how much their support means to me 🥰

Sometimeshaving a cousin was worse than having a sister. Especially when said cousin was ten times more annoying than his actual sister had ever been to him in his whole life. 

It’s the Sunday after the party and Sandy makes the absolutely aggravating decision to invade Mickey’s space, using the key to his apartment while he’s in the shower. He nearly has a heart attack when he gets out to find her rummaging around in his closet, tossing things over her shoulder. It takes them ten minutes of bickering back and forth to finally get Sandy to stop messing up his shit but that doesn’t stop her big mouth from running. 

“So - Mister ‘I don’t party’, did you have fun?” Sandy asks him as she plops down on his bed, leaning back onto her elbows. 

Mickey rolls his eyes from his place by the dresser, digging around inside it for a fresh pair of socks. “You break into my place to ask me if I had fun? You know they invented the fucking phone.”

“As if you’d answer my calls,” she counters sharply, fussing with a piece of lint from his blanket. “I just want to know if this is a regular thing now. Are we buddies with Gallaghers? Because I met his sister, Debbie...”

“No.” He replies, cutting her off as he slides on his socks, hopping on one foot and then the other to get them on before going to grab his boots. 

Sandy huffs loudly. “Do you know any word other than ‘no’?”

“No.”

“Asshole,” Sandy mutters under her breath, getting up to follow after Mickey as he heads out. 

She stays silent long enough that Mickey hopes there is no more discussion on Gallaghers, much less certain ones in particular. He’s already part way out the door, one boot barely all the way on his foot when he hears Sandy unfortunately speak again. 

“What’s this?”

As Mickey turns he sees Sandy pick up Ian’s jacket off his chair, holding it out in front of her as she squints at it. “This is way too nice to be yours.” 

Without thinking, Mickey reaches out and snatches the jacket out of her grip, his cheeks unknowingly flaring a deep crimson. “How would you know, huh?”

His reaction is purely from his gut because no, he doesn’t care what Sandy will say. He just knows it’ll be stupid and completely wrong. Mickey is going to give it back. He will and he doesn’t need to hear her shit about it. 

Clearly his subtlety doesn’t translate because Sandy scowls at him, her attention drifting between him and the jacket clenched in his fist. “Because you work at a burger joint and you don’t go shopping.”

Mickey brushes by her and over to his closet, picking a random hanger to put the jacket on and shoving it behind all his plain white t-shirts at the very end of the row. “Mind your own business.”

“That’s not nearly as fun.” 

Once Mickey is sure the jacket is hidden away from Sandy’s prying eyes, he gets his boot on the rest of the way and heads to the kitchen to find his keys. He hears his cousin shuffling not too far behind him, her breath almost noticeable on the back of his neck. 

Grabbing his keys off the counter, Mickey looks back toward Sandy with a raised brow — of course finding her only a few feet behind him. “Maybe you should find something fun to do instead of bugging me.”

“I have something fun. It’s called the roller rink and my new friend, Debbie. Like I was trying to tell you,” Sandy starts, her expression brightening up at the mention of her so-called friend and Mickey indulges her for just a moment, sighing heavily. She grabs a soda bottle from the fridge, the gas hissing as Sandy rambles about meeting the redheaded woman from the party and how they have plans to hang out. Mickey tunes her out after a minute — not that he doesn’t care, but the name ‘Gallagher’ instantly shuts off his brain.

“Are you even listening?” Sandy’s voice breaks through Mickey’s haze and he shrugs, briefly checking the clock on the wall nearing 5:15pm. “Look, I’ll make you some dinner first and then I’ll leave you to mope on your own.”

“Don’t need to. I got plans.”

“Plans?” Sandy blinks, confusion coating every inch of her face.

Now it’s Mickey’s turn to be a shit and he smiles at her, reaching for his house keys. “I’m gonna get a beer, is that alright with you?”

Just from the way Sandy is staring at him, Mickey knows she’s lost. Mickey never has “plans” unless they involve Larry or Sandy herself. It takes her a good ten seconds to catch up, her brows knitted together. “Okay… but take my car if you’re going out. I need gas.”

“You paying?” 

Sandy grunts but she reaches into the pocket of her jeans, tossing Mickey a ten before she’s back and searching through his fridge for anything edible. “Who you going with?” 

“Told you to mind your business,” Mickey replies bluntly, taking his chance to speed his way out of the apartment.

“Hey!” she barks once she realizes Mickey is ignoring her, her hand waving a beer bottle like a weapon. “Mick!”

Mickey shuts the door promptly in her face, hearing her faint bark of annoyance behind the thin wood. It’s none of her business and Mickey isn’t up to sharing because maybe he’s fallen into some kind of new routine — the kind that doesn’t involve laundry or making sure he’s on time for work. It’s the kind that involves another person. It’s only been three days but Mickey and Lip have been meeting at the Alibi every day at 5:30pm for a round of beers. It’s an unspoken thing, both of them just showing up at the same time but it’s familiar. Pleasant. Comfortable. Lip isn’t as much of an asshole anymore and Mickey isn’t a teenager with pent up aggression. 

It’s almost _nice_.

Mickey wouldn’t say they’re friends, not by a long shot, because he hasn’t a friend since — well, ever. And no, Sandy doesn’t count because blood is much stronger than just simple friendship. Still, whatever Mickey is forming with Lip is relaxed enough that there’s no room to question it. Lip never asks about prison and Mickey never asks why Lip looks like the walking dead. It’s a silent agreement that they just shoot the shit, talk about whatever comes to mind — nothing serious, nothing too heavy. 

Turning the corner to the parking spot beside his apartment, Mickey spots Sandy’s piece of shit car, the same piece of shit it was a month ago when it picked him outside of Beckman. It seems like it’s gotten worse after the trip, the engine grinding enough to make his ears ring as he starts it. He wonders if his brothers give a fuck if it’s busted or if they’re leaving Sandy to fend for herself now that she’s chosen sides. It crosses his mind to ask but he knows Sandy won’t tell him and as much as he wants to, Mickey doesn’t have the heart to go to that house. Not even for her. 

The engine eventually roars to life and a puff of smoke rolls out of the back muffler as Mickey shifts the car into gear, taking it out onto the road. He’s attempted to get behind the wheel since he’s been back, but even then, the car jerks as he takes the turns, jolts when Mickey comes to a stop. It’s a miracle he doesn’t get pulled over and taken to day lockup for acting like some kind of drunk behind the wheel. 

It takes considerably less time for him to get to the Alibi, screeching to halt outside the building after a solid ten minutes. He parks it on the side of the street and the moment he puts the car in park, a small _pop_ comes out from behind it and he groans, dropping his head against the steering wheel. The pair were great at stealing cars, could scam with the best of them, but both of them were useless when it came to actually fixing them. 

A groan leaves Mickey’s lips at the same time that a light knock comes on his driver’s side window and he snaps out a ‘what?’ only to shut up once he sees who it is. Lip stands there, half bent over with his face framed by the car window. A cigarette dangles from his mouth and he motions for Mickey to roll down the glass. Mickey sighs but does exactly that, letting the smoke that slithers in comfort him. 

“Didn’t know you had a car.”

Mickey scoffs, lightly smacking the steering wheel with one tattooed hand. “Don’t. It’s my cousin’s.”

“Sounds like a piece of shit.” Lip squints in the lowering sun, two fingers moving the cigarette away so he can blow out a healthy round of smoke. 

Mickey sneers, baring his teeth. “Yeah, thanks for the heads up.”

Lip laughs at a joke that Mickey isn’t in on and he rests his hand on the hood of the car, leaning closer into the open window. “Open up.”

“What?”

“Open up the car door,” he repeats, his laugh fading to a dry chuckle. 

“For what?”

“So I can rob you,” Lip jokes dryly, scooting around the car to the passenger’s side and tapping on the glass window over there. “We’ll drive to my house. I’ll take a look at it for you.”

Mickey relents and leans over to unlock the door. “You fix cars?” He sounds bewildered when he asks, as if fixing cars instead of stealing them is a completely new concept to him. 

“Yeah, don’t you?”

Lip’s joke gets him on the chin and Mickey chuckles, shaking his head as he starts the car only to get the same churning as before. It’s loud and Lip scoffs when he hears it, sucking on the very end of his cigarette. Mickey flips off the other man and starts the car, heading off in the direction of the Gallagher house. 

They’re not friends but maybe they could be.

It’s a quick drive out to Homan but with the way the car creaks, it’s a miracle they make it there at all. Lip gives him shit for it the whole way there while he plays with the radio station, bitching about how there’s no good stations in Chicago anymore. At least there was one thing the both of them could agree on. Disco would never be what rock and roll was. 

“Pull up into the drive. I’ll go get my tools from the house.” 

Mickey takes the Camaro into the spot and cuts the engine, the music cutting off abruptly. Lip finishes off his cigarette and tosses the remnant on the grass, motioning to Mickey as he gets out. “Hey, pop the hood open for me. You do know how to do that, right?”

“Get your fucking tools, man.” Mickey chuckles under his breath as he gets out of the car, coming around the front to pop the hood open. He props it up and takes a look, feigning like he knows what he’s doing. To him, it’s basically a jumble of parts — a thousand and one pieces of junk his dad would have sold for a high price. 

“So you’ll hang out with my brother but not me? I’m hurt.”

The voice startles Mickey that he jumps up, banging his head on the hood. “Fuck!” he swears, grabbing the back of his skull where he can already feel a bruise forming. 

“Oh shit, sorry.” Ian laughs out of nowhere and he pokes his head under the hood to make eye contact. “I thought you saw me.”

“When was I supposed to see you? Through the hood of the fucking car?” Mickey snaps at him, moving a couple of steps away from the hood with a dull fire in his eyes. 

“Someone’s moody again today.”

Mickey thinks of something snappy to say but it dies on his tongue when he finally sees Ian clearly. He’s dressed in full workout clothes — a baseball t-shirt clinging to his chest, athletic tube socks pulled up to his shins, sweatband, and shorts that barely hit his mid-thigh. Mickey stares for only a second before he dips his head quickly back under the hood, clicking his tongue like he’s too disturbed to answer. 

He purposely keeps his eyes on the engine, idly poking around on the insides to look like he’s occupied. One thing he is _not_ doing is glancing over at Ian or thinking of the faint smell of sweat that’s rolling off him. Mickey isn’t doing anything like that. 

“So you and Lip hang out?” Ian asks again, breaking the brief silence as he leans against the side of the car. 

“Sometimes. He’s gonna try to fix Sandy’s trash car.”

“I guess that makes sense. He’s been working at his friend’s garage since he got back.”

Mickey opens his mouth to ask, curiosity overcoming him, but he holds it back because he can guess. It’s putting pieces of a puzzle together. Process of elimination. Even prison kept him informed of what the years had done to several million men in the country. Guys like Lip with that exhausted demeanor and lifeless expression were a dime a dozen, hanging out at every bar and puking on the sidewalks. 

The sad side effects of war. 

“Better than burger flipping,” Mickey says with the dry rub of his humor, awkwardly kneading at the back of his neck. 

The two haven’t spoken much at all since the party. Their shifts on Saturday and Sunday morning mostly consisted of the two harping back and forth about which order was going where. They didn’t discuss the party, didn’t discuss if they were good now or not. If Ian stays silent on the subject, then so will Mickey. 

But that was purely wishful thinking. 

“You say that but he’s nearly lost two fingers doing the job. I think we’re better off,” Ian starts, tapping his fingers against the steel and Mickey wills Lip to hurry the hell up already. “Thanks for coming, by the way. To the party. Never got to mention it.”

“It’s nothing. Had a decent time.” He says it flippantly just in case, a tiny bit of push while Ian pulls. 

“Yeah, me too. It was cool.”

Mickey could very well leave it there. He didn’t have to say anything and maybe Ian would vanish on his own but that damn curiosity piques in him again. “Didn’t know you sing.”

So maybe Ian’s singing crept into Mickey’s thoughts more than once over the last two days. He found himself remembering exactly how the song sounded in Ian’s voice, not able to hear it any other way. And that damn word — beautiful — still lingered like a knife above his head. 

Ian shrugs, his lips only slightly turned up. “I think there’s a lot you don’t know about me but — yeah, kind of. I’m no John Denver but I can hold a tune.”

“It was good,” Mickey says before he can catch himself and Ian’s face changes, his cheeks going pink from either the heat or something else. 

“You think so?”

Clearing his throat, Mickey puts on his gruff tone again. “Yeah, man. It was, you know — alright.”

“From you? I’ll take it.” Ian shifts his body to face Mickey’s, sliding beside him under the hood and their hips inadvertently bump against each other. “So I was wondering…”

Whatever Ian attempts to say is cut short by Lip clamoring down the stairs, tools rattling in a wooden box. “Got ‘em,” He announces, putting his hand on Ian’s shoulder as he approaches. “You guys good out here?”

Ian moves back from Mickey slightly, pushing Lip off gently. “Yeah, we’re good. Carl home? I was gonna see if he wanted to go for a run.”

“Yeah, he’s upstairs,” Lip tells him, setting his tools down on the ground. 

Ian nods and makes his way to the house, heading up the stairs two at a time. “I’ll catch you later, Mickey.” His hand is half raised in a wave and he smirks, his teeth lightly tugging on his bottom lip. “You should — come around more often, if you want.” 

And then he’s gone, disappearing behind the door of the Gallagher house. 

Mickey coughs, a fit of sputtering coming out all at once and Lip claps him on the back to help him clear it. Something about his expression is smug and Mickey is starting to think all the Gallaghers have the same shit eating grin. 

“You good there, Mickey?”

He runs a hand under his nose, that same nervous twitch ever-present. “Just show me how to fix the fucking car.”

\--

The next time Mickey sees Ian, it’s almost the start of lunchtime on Monday. Unlike Mickey who has a set time schedule imposed on him, Ian works different hours every week. Some days with Mickey, other days out front picking up dishes. Today though, Ian’s back at the grill with him by 11, already tying an apron around his waist. 

“Miss me?” Ian teases, leaning across Mickey to grab a spatula.

“Don’t start. You’re on sandwiches until I’m back from break.”

“I’m taking that as a yes.”

“Do me a favor and don’t.”

Mickey chucks his apron into the bin and gathers his sandwich that one of the guys made for him ahead of time. It’s been long enough now that Mickey’s falling into rhythm with everyone, all of them getting along in a way he wasn’t expecting. It’s the one part of his life that’s stable enough, that falls perfectly into the semblance of routine he’s created for himself. 

Taking his usual turkey sandwich out to the dining room, Mickey finds his place at his regular booth and digs in immediately. Breakfast is starting to become foreign to him so his stomach is growling unbearably by the time his break rolls around. The sandwich tastes like heaven going down, a step up from the mediocre gruel he forces down his throat otherwise. 

Most of the time on his breaks, Mickey finds himself flipping through magazines, or on rare occasions, switching to a song he likes on the jukebox but today — peace and quiet just doesn’t seem to be on the list. The bell above the door chimes and a pair of sneakers squeaks along the linoleum, all the way over to Mickey’s table. He doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. 

“Fuck off, Sandy,” he tells his cousin as she slides into the booth, his fingers flipping to another article in Rolling Stone. 

“‘Fuck off, Sandy’ he says. Why can’t you ever be happy to see me?” Sandy huffs, taking a fry off his plate just like Ian always does. 

Mickey flips another page, not giving his cousin the privilege of his acknowledgement. “Maybe because you never leave me the hell alone.”

“I’ll leave you alone when you’re less of a baby.” Sandy kicks him under the table to get his attention, the dull tip of her sneaker digging into his shin. “Besides, I’m here for a reason. We have a problem.”

Mickey attempts to kick her back but Sandy slides out of the way before he can manage it. “What kind of problem?”

A pause and Sandy scoots closer, her eyes darting back and forth behind her right shoulder. “Big Russian men at our house problem,” she breathes out in a hushed whisper, like someone is gonna pop up behind her at any second. 

Goosebumps pop up over Mickey’s skin and he too, looks over his shoulder. “Wait, what? When the fuck was this?”

“Last night when you were too busy getting drunk with Lip.”

“Fuck. They say anything?”

“Not to me but they did to Uncle Terry,” Sandy tells him, wringing a napkin in her hands nervously. “He made me fork over the cash.”

It was very rare, extremely in fact, for the Milkoviches to be scared of anyone. They didn’t get nervous. They didn’t flinch at any punch. They just didn’t do it. But Sandy and Mickey aren’t always typical Milkovichs. 

Mickey chugs back a huge gulp of water, his throat suddenly dry. “That’s good, right? Means we’re square.”

“I guess but... something’s not right, Mick.”

The hesitant glint in her eye causes Mickey to reach out, putting a hand on her lower arm just above her wrist. “Just stay out of it, okay? Don’t let fucking Colin or Terry rope you into that shit. They want someone, they can look for me.”

His protective nature comes out in muted form, much more gentle than the side that protects with his fists. Despite all that he whines and all the times she fucks up, Mickey believes that Sandy is too good for their shit. He’ll be damned if she doesn’t get better than he did. 

When Sandy speaks again, her voice borders on sadness, of all things, and she casts her eyes down at the wood. “I don’t want you to go back there.”

Mickey shakes his head, squeezing her arm again. “I’m not going back anywhere. Promise.”

“Good.” She gives him a watery looking smile, sniffling once to hold it in. “Because I’ll kill you if you leave me again.”

They both laugh in unison and Mickey pushes the rest of his sandwich over to Sandy, wiping his hands in his jeans. The moment lightens up and for once, Mickey chooses to think everything’s fine. That his dad is the one in the shit and not him. For once, Mickey won’t have a problem. 

Except for maybe one. 

Sandy starts shoving the sandwich into her mouth and in between bites, starts chattering off about Debbie again — all of the words falling on deaf ears. The door to the diner dings again and a familiar face walks in, standing tall in a tailored suit. 

Fucking Ned. 

If the shit wasn’t piling high enough, it’s now suddenly overflowing and Mickey’s nausea is even more prominent than before. His only saving grace is that Sandy hasn’t caught on to how yellow his face becomes or how his hand instinctively curls around his glass, threatening to break. 

Ned walks through the tables until he’s only one away from Sandy and Mickey, hovering just behind Ian who is busy picking up stray dishes that the busboy left behind. The man’s hand comes to rest on Ian’s back and it hits Mickey that this isn’t a reunion. No, it’s too familiar. Ian has seen Ned since the trip, since they both got home. 

The realization makes him sick, straight down to the bone and the itch to run his fork through Ned’s face tempts him yet again. Getting Ian’s attention, Ned pulls him in for a half hug as one hand slaps his back in greeting. Of course Ian is all smiles, returning the affection with as much vigor. 

They’re close enough that Mickey can hear their hushed voices but he’s not eavesdropping. Overhearing is different. 

Ned starts speaking but he doesn’t take his fucking hand off Ian’s back, letting it rest a bit too low. “Bad time? I thought I’d come visit you, take you out when your shift is over.”

“Take me out?” Ian asks, seemingly a bit surprised by the sudden invitation. 

Mickey cranes his head slightly to keep watching them but Ned circles Ian like a lion, crowds his space with no shame. No embarrassment despite all the other people in the room. 

“Dinner, whatever you want.”

Ian seems only half interested as he stuffs tip money into the pocket of his apron, turning in such a way that the two men almost touch chests. “Rain check, I’m busy.”

“Busy, eh? Alright, how about Friday? Heard about a groovy place called The Fountain.” Ned adds with a thin layer of slime coating his words. 

Mickey would be lying if he didn’t hope Ian might say no. 

“Fine, yeah. Friday.”

While Mickey deflates, Ned puffs up and reaches out to squeeze Ian’s bicep for a bit too long. “Great. I’ll pick you up.”

Ned’s hand glides down Ian’s back once again and Mickey fantasizes about breaking it off. He watches Ian wave Ned off, going back to gathering the plates while the man takes a booth by the window. The thought of poisoning also sounds good to Mickey. 

“Mick? Mickey? _Hello_?” Sandy waves a hand in front of Mickey’s face, her palm nearly colliding with his nose. 

He bounces back to reality, blinking several times to rid his gaze of its intensity. “What?”

“Were you even listening to me?” She’s puzzled, obviously so as she knots her brows together — a common expression for her these days. 

Mickey stands up, smoothing out his shirt with one hand and he nods. “Yeah. Yeah. Look, come by the apartment later. We’ll talk about it.” He talks at rapid speed, quick to get the words out so he can hide before the anger hits. 

Sandy yelps, waving a hand at her retreating cousin. “You weren’t listening!”

“Tell me later!”

Mickey leaves his cousin in the dirt yet again but this time out of pure necessity. He clocks back in early and gets back to work to distract him but his mind wanders, causing his hand to tremble around the spatula. 

He assumed Ian cut ties with grandpa back on the road, using him for the ride and nothing else but it’s clearer by the second that he was sorely mistaken. His imagination fills in the gaps and when Ian comes back from picking up dishes, Mickey can’t so much as look at him. 

“You okay, Mick?” Ian asks him as he stands by the grill, holding a stack of plates at least a good foot high. 

“Grandpa’s here.” The bitterness rolls off Mickey’s tongue, making his own words taste sour in his mouth. 

There’s a pause, a strange tension that slowly starts to coat the air with thickness. At least on Mickey’s end, it’s enough to make him feel like an invisible hand is wrapping around his neck. 

“Oh, um — yeah. We hang out. He’s alright.”

The hand tightens and Mickey clears his throat. “Uh huh.” 

Ian moves around so he’s closer to the sink than Mickey, starting to drop plates into the sink one by one. “He’s really not that bad.”

“Why? Because he’s got money?” It comes out snappy, borderline vicious and even from a distance away, Mickey can see the obvious flash of confusion? hurt? uncertainty? cross Ian’s features. 

“Oh come on, Mickey.”

A much longer pause comes and there’s only the grease pops on the grill and the faint hum of a song in the dining room to fill in the blanks. 

Mickey tries to keep his mouth shut, he does but there are far too many things he does without thinking. “Just think it’s funny that you’ve been seeing him.”

Then Ian’s mouth falls open, up and down like a fish just plucked from the water. “Why does it matter?”

Mickey refuses to answer, hunching up his shoulders and angrily flipping a burger that sizzles openly on the grill. It’s burned, charred around the edges and Mickey can relate. 

When Ian stares at him instead of fucking off, Mickey mutters despite himself, “Have fun on your little fag date.”

The rest of the plates that Ian was carrying crash into the sink, water splashing up onto the floor. “I will, thanks,” he spits before he goes toward the back, vanishing in a handful of seconds. 

Mickey tells himself to leave it alone. Let Ian wreck his life, let Ned pay him to do whatever it is they do. But when Ian falls silent and their shift is numbingly void of Ian’s voice, his laughter, his stupid jokes — Mickey finds himself missing it. 

For the first time, he finds himself missing someone and that alone is more than he knows how to handle. 

\--

It’s a bad idea. 

A whole four days later and Mickey knows it’s a bad idea. 

Ian and him had gotten back on speaking terms after a day or two, with the younger of the two not able to stay silent for long, but the thought of Ned lingered between them every day. Mickey thinks about it once he leaves work, in between drinks at The Alibi, during his entire ride on the L. Even when he berates himself, tells himself that he doesn’t care, it’s just another way of thinking about it. 

He _knows_ that it’s a bad idea. 

He should leave it alone, go home, eat his fucking day old microwaved turkey or whatever else Sandy shoved in his fridge and leave it. There are other things to think about — a crazy Russian mafia hooker for one, the drug trade for another but neither of them compare to the endless racing heat in his blood that hasn’t left him since he saw Ned touch Ian like that. Like he owned him. 

It’s none of his business and yet now he can see why Sandy is always nosing about. When something doesn’t feel right, your skin doesn’t let you live until you do something about it. Anything. It makes no sense and Mickey can feel his sense disconnecting from his gut, leading him with pure rage — a fiery pit of acid that pools inside him and makes him feel as if he could spit venom. 

That’s why when Mickey’s stop comes, he skips it. He watches his neighborhood roll by the window of the train, his apartment off in the distance. His hands run over his jeans, his nails digging into the denim and dragging along his knees over and over again as the stops tick by one by one. The train heads all the way into downtown and then one step farther into a part of town Mickey never once set foot in. 

His dad used to talk about it. That part of town where all the fairies went. For a guy who committed crime on a daily basis, took drugs by the poundful, and loved beating his children — he thought _they_ were the deep seeded ones, the sick people and Mickey believed him. Being gay was worse than being a criminal - it was being fucking disturbed, diagnosed with some disease that would only serve to kill you. 

And Mickey believed him. 

As the train pulls to a stop, Mickey sees the signs for a row of clubs. They aren’t ones he’s ever heard of, barely noticeable from the street minus the lights blaring from the inside. He can see outlines of men hanging out by the entrances, sees how close their bodies are, and their unabashed way of being.

And sometimes Mickey wonders if he still believes him. 

Mickey’s body moves on autopilot as he gets off the train and takes the stairs down to the bottom, the rumble of music in the distance. It’s a mix of disco and rock, the shine of colors extending up to the sky as if to announce that yes, they were there. Yes, they did exist. A cold sweat breaks out on the back of Mickey’s neck and he exhales sharply, curling his fingers into a fist by his side. The train still idles a few feet above him and in a few seconds, Mickey could be back on the train and on the way back to his apartment. Away from everything he fears. 

It’s another line and another patch of sand but this one holds so many more consequences. He can feel the kick up already, how the sand will suffocate him this time but he can’t stop it. There’s no stopping the momentum once he’s got it. 

The name of the club is practically burned into his memory and as he walks, he discreetly reads the signs, keeping his head mostly tucked downward so no one can catch his face. He knows no one from back home is going to be out here but the presence of ‘wrong’ permeates. It keeps his feet heavy and his heart pounding roughly in his chest. Get in and get out. No one will know. No one will find out. If he can’t find Ian, he’ll leave it alone. He swears he’ll leave it alone. 

Smack in the middle of the row that Mickey is going down is a building with a handful of men outside. It’s unassuming, uninteresting at first sight — probably the least decorated on the block, but there’s a sign hanging on the wall by the entrance that says ‘The Fountain’, marking that he’s found the right one. As he surveys the place, Mickey passes by the men lingering around the entrance and comes to the conclusion that he’s severely out of place. His t-shirt and jeans don’t match well with the velour suits, the suede boots, the low v-necks and high waisted bell bottoms that hug their masculine bodies. 

Mickey is not supposed to be here but it’s too late now. He’s crossed his line and he can’t go back. He continues to the door where a guard stands and the man’s eyes glide over Mickey’s form, taking in all of him in a slow and predatory way. Mickey has beaten up guys bigger than him, cracked the skull of guys with much more power, but it’s the first time he’s felt intimidated by just a look. He’s suddenly self-conscious, burying his hands into his pockets. The guard chuckles, whispering something to another nearby guard before moving out of the way. 

“Go on ahead, man. Happy to have you.” 

Mickey keeps his mouth shut and passes through to the inside but he’s hyper aware of the eyes on him. He hears low thrums of laughter and his fist gets tighter at his side. Is this what Ian feels? Like prey in a pile of predators? He tries not to think about it as he walks in, nearly blinded by the multitude of lights, the shine from the disco ball that rotates overhead. The rumble of the music from earlier only gets louder, pounding into his chest and Mickey is taken aback by what he sees. 

Men. Hundreds of them on the dance floor, packed together like sardines. The room itself is large but they’ve packed themselves in just the square in the middle, barely a few inches of space between most of them. The heat is palpable, sweat already rolling down Mickey’s back and their hands — hundreds of hands — grasping at drinks and waists and thighs. Touching. So closely touching. Mickey feels like he’s back in middle school when he saw a Penthouse for the first time except these are men and the tingling that runs through him is magnified times a hundred. 

His legs weigh him down like lead but when someone bumps into him on their way to the dance floor, it gets him moving again. Mickey moves past the bar that takes over one side of the room and takes a place in the darkness just to the left of it, hiding away from prying eyes. His neck flares red like a rash that crawls up to his face and he breathes deeply to counteract the dizziness that threatens to take over. 

This is stupid. Looking for a guy he doesn’t care about in a sea of gay men and for what? To do what? Maybe this is what Ian wants, maybe this is exactly what he wants to be doing but Mickey can’t let it go. It manifests everything that Mickey attempts to avoid and yet something brought him here. He’s here for some reason. His system aches for something strong to guzzle down but he’s too numb to order anything. In the safety of the darkness, Mickey stares at the ceiling to regain his bearings but eventually his gaze falls back on the crowd. 

It’s wrong to be here, Mickey is sure of it but when he lets it sink, why doesn’t it feel that way? Why does it feel like a shot of adrenaline, a drowning of warmth, like something that awakens his senses to the point where it feels like he’s allowed to breathe for once in his life? But most importantly, why does it feel like it’s okay for him to be here?

He keeps searching as if the answers are among the club goers, among the people he’s been told for years were the freaks, the misguided. A spotlight glides through the crowd and briefly catches on something that sends a flash of orange through Mickey’s peripheral. He’s drawn to it like a moth to a flame, that roar of anger coming back full force. 

Ian isn’t recognizable at first glance. His hair is slick back on the sides, coiffed up top and the sweat rolls down the sides of his face as he dances. The light darts back and forth over his face, lighting up his features and adding years to his age. A man more than a kid. He’s dressed in a way that’s formal but relaxed — a silk shirt that opens nearly all the way down to his ribs and reveals the ginger patches of chest hair while his bell bottoms hug his thighs, almost like a second skin. The scene reminds him of Ian from Vegas, the dorky kid who danced with his cousin except this Ian is confident, strong, distant. 

He sways dangerously close to other couples, almost as if he’s unbalanced on his feet. Ian’s mouth drops open and he slides a pill into his mouth, setting off alarms in Mickey’s head. 

_Fucker_. 

It only takes a fraction of a second for Mickey to start moving but he’s not heading for Ian. No, he’s searching for the predator. He combs the area near the bar but comes up empty. He continues to search, all the while keeping an eye on Ian. The man’s got to be drugged out of his mind and Mickey knows very well what drugs do to people. It’s on his third glance back at Ian that Mickey sees him, catches Ned wrapping his arms around Ian’s middle and pulling him against his chest. 

The monster inside him growls but Mickey stops himself from charging like a bull. In a group of this many, it’s a recipe for disaster with someone bound to call the cops at a moment’s notice. But he’s got him and Mickey is not letting go of this now. He bides his time, waits by the bar as the bartender slides a drink down his way with a wink. Mickey can only nod as he accepts it, knowing enough to know the connotation but not caring because fuck it, it’s free alcohol. 

He is half a drink down when the pair finally move away from the dance floor, Ned’s left arm holding Ian steady while his right hand slides down the younger man’s chest. And there it comes again — that roar inside him. Mickey waits a beat before following steadily in their wake, leaving behind his half finished glass. Every inch of him is screaming as he walks — one last ditch effort by his senses to stop this, to stop falling further down the rabbit hole but when Ned takes Ian out the back door, Mickey follows unabashedly. 

At least a good twenty feet of distance is between Mickey and the other two men but he’s close enough that he can see Ned whisper in Ian’s ear, his lips touching his skin. It turns Mickey’s vision red and the hallway that leads to the bathrooms closes in on him, everything around him becoming foggy. From day one, Mickey knew Ned was a creep but this is something else. Taking advantage of Ian is something else entirely. 

He makes his way through a few men chattering in the walkway, clearing the way to catch Ned dragging Ian into the bathroom. A few people come out once he enters and Mickey barks at them to get the hell out of the way, forcing himself inside before Ned has a chance to lock it. 

“Occupied,” Ned says in a hoarse voice and Mickey bites down on his bottom lip enough to draw blood. 

Mickey ignores the pounding in his head and flings the stall door open with one hand, fast enough that he catches a glimpse of Ned with his lips on Ian’s neck. 

“Mickey.” His name is hardly a whisper when it passes through Ian’s lips, his eyes half-lidded and sleepy — not all the way there. 

And that’s it. That’s enough. 

Mickey takes no time to dwell and he grabs at Ned’s collar, tugging him back roughly. “Surprise,” he says menacingly, spinning the man around so he can pin him up against the piss yellow tile with a thud. 

Ned’s eyes grow forty sizes larger, shock decorating his face and the confidence Mickey remembers fades to reveal a sick and sad old man. “I — we,” he starts to stutter out and Mickey pushes his fist into his windpipe, not wanting to hear his pathetic excuses. 

It’s a bad idea. The worst idea he’s ever had but when Mickey pulls back and launches his fist straight into Ned’s nose — damn does it feel _right_. 

The sound of bone cracking rings through the otherwise empty bathroom and Ned loses control of his legs, going limp in Mickey’s grip with a yelp of pain. It’s been so long since Mickey laid a hand on anybody and the thrill comes back full force, egging him on to keep going. He follows Ned’s falling form and presses him into the floor, landing punch after punch — blood splattering along the tile. His fist aches after the second, goes numb after the third. Mickey’s chest heaves with every blow, his legs trembling as he presses his knee into Ned’s chest. 

If it wasn’t for a knock at the bathroom door and a holler to hurry up, Mickey knows he would have kept going, but he’s jarred out of it, gasping for breath as he yells back ‘one fucking minute’. He grabs Ned by the collar one more time, dragging the beaten and bruised face close to his. So close that Ned won’t ever forget the contours of Mickey’s face. 

“You stay the fuck away from him, you hear me?” His voice is low and strained, breaking now that he’s cut the edge off his fury. “I won’t let you off so easy next time.”

Ned gives a pathetic excuse for a nod as the blood drips out his nose and over his lips, pooling at the very tip of his chin. Mickey releases him then, launching the man back with a forceful shove that leaves him in a crumpled heap by the tile. Mickey pauses to watch him, to make sure he won’t be getting up any time soon before wiping his knuckles against the fabric of his shirt, leaving blood streaks behind. 

The adrenaline continues to flow through him at a steady pace and while Mickey knows that he’s probably fucked everything up for himself, it’s worth it. It’s definitely worth it. Turning back, Mickey opens his mouth to say something to Ian, to explain himself but when he looks there’s no one there. Or at least not in his line of sight. Closer to the ground, Ian has his head halfway inside a toilet bowl, his arms weakly hugging the porcelain.

“Jesus Christ, Ian,” Mickey mutters as he reaches out, hauling Ian up by his armpits. “Why’d you come here, huh?” 

His expression softens when he sees how pale Ian is, his freckles darkening against the sheer tint of pink. When Mickey gets no answer to his question, he shakes his head and hauls Ian up onto his shoulder, taking a moment to adjust to carrying someone at least a good half a foot taller than him. He lets out a string of profanities and pushes open the doors as best he can with one hand. The men outside the door all peer in at the same time, giving Mickey looks that carry varying degrees of fear. 

“All yours.” It’s all Mickey can say as he pushes his way through, Ian’s legs knocking against his abdomen. All things considered, he doubts it’s the worst the club goers have ever seen and most of them let him through with dirty looks or worried, hushed mumbles. None of it matters though as Mickey gets outside, the air much cooler on the street despite the smoldering heat of the summer. 

Mickey thinks of his options and all of them are pretty shit. He could find a payphone to call Sandy but odds are that one of the other Milkovichs are bound to answer instead. He doesn’t have Gallagher's phone number and even then, how is he supposed to explain? Another round of swears and Mickey does the only thing he can. He carries Ian’s lifeless form all the way down to the L, up the stairs, and pushes him into one of the seats right by his side. It’s a good fifteen minute train ride but as the time ticks toward midnight, the L is thankfully pretty much empty. 

Once they arrive, Mickey lifts Ian back onto his feet and when he hears Ian slur under his breath, he heaves a sigh of relief. Jelly brained was miles better than dead. 

The street leading to Mickey’s place is poorly lit, only a few rogue street lamps flickering on the corners so he makes the walk as quickly as he can, keeping a hand on Ian’s stomach to keep him upright. When they reach his place, Mickey props Ian against the wall and without thinking, places a gentle tap on his cheek. 

“Ian, hey. Give me a second, yeah? Gonna get you inside,” he tells him, though he’s sure Ian isn’t registering a single thing that’s happening. 

Mickey digs around for his keys, managing to get the lock turned despite the poor lighting. He takes Ian back into his arms and pushes the door open with the toe of his boot. It’s pitch black except for the filter of moonlight coming in through the open curtain and Mickey blindly makes his way to the sofa, helping Ian onto the poorly constructed cushions. 

For the first time that night, Mickey feels something resembling calm overcome him and he runs a hand through his hair with shaky fingers. He exhales and nods to himself, moving to grab a pillow to slide underneathIan’s head. As he does so though, a hand comes up to wrap limply around his wrist, stopping his movements. 

“Mickey.” Ian says his name for the second time that night and his eyes are cloudy, his mind somewhere else. Somewhere far gone from reality. 

But his touch is soft, his expression is gentle, he’s so much smaller than he was an hour ago. Ian’s clothes are crumpled and dirty from the train ride, his hair hanging in his face from being carried. Mickey almost can’t stomach the sight. He can’t stomach what might have happened if he wasn’t there. 

Mickey clears his throat, taking Ian’s hand and prying it off slowly. “Hey, it’s okay. Get some rest.”

Ian blinks up at him wearily but there’s hardly any room left in him to fight. His eyes fall close after a few seconds, all of his awareness of Mickey’s presence going right along with it. 

With Ian gone again, Mickey lifts up his feet and props them up on a pillow, getting his only blanket off the back of the couch to cover Ian’s torso with. It’s too short for him, barely getting to his shins but it’s the best Mickey can do. The weather is still warm enough that the blanket isn’t really necessary but better safe than sorry. It’s not like Mickey knows the right thing to do. He grabs a wastebasket from the kitchen and places it next to Ian’s slumbering form, sighing to himself. Sandy wouldn’t let him live this one down if she found out.

It’s relatively unimportant and Mickey forgets all about it as soon as he looks back at the man on his couch. Ian is peaceful and curled up around an old throw pillow, the light shadow from the curtains casting over his face. Mickey watches him for a moment, trails over his stomach and watches it move with every intake of breath. It’s the first time Mickey has ever let someone into his space, the first time time someone’s been allowed anywhere near him. Even if it’s only a fraction into his safe space. 

There must be a reason why that person happens to be Ian Gallagher.

He leaves Ian to rest and goes back to his room, sits down on the edge of his bed — too antsy to be able to lie down just yet. He kicks off his boots into a corner of his room, briefly thinks of the jacket in his closet that belongs to the man passed out on his couch. Mickey thinks and thinks and thinks until his thoughts blend together into one. A mess of answers to questions he hasn’t asked himself yet. 

Prison, the trip, Ned, Ian. It all feels like an eternity ago and yet it lives in Mickey’s bones. It’s all he thinks about some days. He looks at the wall that separates himself from Ian and asks himself again — why? 

Why him? Why are you doing this? 

He knows it’s there, the answer is staring him straight in the face but he avoids it, tiptoes around it. Mickey lays his head down on his pillow and chooses to ignore it. Chooses to ignore visions of men, of wanting and having, of Ian. 

As sleep kicks in and the pain thrums through his fist, Mickey realizes that while he always thought that prison was the scariest thing he’d ever face - he wasn’t prepared for Ian Gallagher.

Not one bit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not to get sappy but as we near the halfway point of this story, it just means a lot to me that you all continue to support this! Thank you from the bottom of my heart and fingers crossed for an update soon!  
> please come talk to me:  
> [xgoldendays](https://xgoldendays.tumblr.com) \- tumblr  
> [xgoldendays](https://curiouscat.qa/xgoldendays) \- curiouscat


	12. Bad, Bad Leroy Brown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be the first to admit that this chapter hurt me. I listened to a lot of sad songs from my mickey playlist and attempted to knock this one out. It took me longer than I anticipated just because of the content but I hope you all enjoy anyway!! Thank you for all the support and I'm sorry I'm so behind on comments, I promise I read every single one and I love you all for them. 
> 
> as always all my heart and soul to [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse) and [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor) for listening to me cry about this fic every damn day because I am a big baby.

Mickey startles himself awake the next morning. 

His dreams are foggy with flashes of fists, of blood and bones, of broken flesh. Ned’s or his own, he can’t tell, but when he wakes, he nearly jolts out of bed — sweat breaking across his forehead. With a trembling hand, Mickey wipes across his clammy skin and pushes his hair back away from his face with a staggered exhale. It’s not the first time in his life that his dreams morphed into nightmares but it’s the first time that the reason for his fears isn’t his father. 

Mickey’s knees creak as he slides to the edge of the bed, his feet dragging over the shag carpeting as he pushes himself up. His knuckles are a darkened purple mixed with yellow, angry hints of red over the cartilage that screams every time he twitches. The moments from the night before all come flooding back in small, short waves — brief moments of realization that threaten to drown his lungs.

Ned, Ian. Ned, Ian. Ian. Ian. Ian. 

If this was any other day, Mickey would be on his way to the bathroom. Brush his teeth, wash his face, take a shower for longer than necessary. Normal things. His routine. But today, as Mickey passes by his open room door, he catches just the bottom half of Ian’s legs dangling over the side of the couch from underneath the blanket. His pant leg is ruffled, his sock nearly slipping off from what Mickey can assume was all his tossing and turning. 

There are two options as far as Mickey is concerned: pretend none of it happened or deal with it. 

His mind rattles off between the two options at rapid speed as he silently makes his way into the living room, his steps carefully missing the especially creaking parts of his floor on purpose. Ian’s form is slowly revealed to him as he walks in, his teeth already boring down on his bottom lip. Ian is still lying flat on his back but his shirt from the night prior is pushed even more open, revealing the expanse of his chest — every pale inch of it. It’s only reflected more as the early morning light casts on him and onto the floor, making his calm sleep seem even more ethereal. 

If Mickey didn’t know any better, he might pass this off as normal. As if Ian came there of his own free will. As if Ian being there was okay. 

But it wasn’t.

 _Right_?

Mickey blinks at the sight of Ian, swallowing back the hard lump that’s settled just under his Adam's apple. He’s staring and he knows it but he can’t stop himself, he can’t _stop_ looking. Something constricts deep inside him and a warmth rolls over the back of his head and along his spine, setting his body on fire. 

_Fuck_.

Another blink and Mickey growls at himself, at the tightening in his lower belly. He forces himself to look away, curling his injured hand into a fist in the hopes that the pain will clear his head. Mickey mindlessly goes to dig around in his kitchen, popping open cabinets and the fridge to see what he has that’s edible. Maybe it’s instinct but when Mickey pulls out toast, eggs, some kind of instant pancake mix that’s only days from expiring he doesn’t get enough for just himself. 

He makes enough for two. 

It takes him a good twenty minutes, the toast being the only thing that ends up moderately burnt and he’s plating some for himself, Mickey catches another glimpse at Ian not even twenty feet away. He sleeps so calmly; it’s the first thought that goes through Mickey’s head. After a round of drugs in his system, Mickey expected more restlessness but not this. Especially not when Mickey has never had a moment of calm in his sleep. In fact, Mickey is sure he’s never had a good night’s rest in his entire life. 

The sun of the early morning turns orange as it rises in the sky and shines over Ian’s face, a glimmer right across his nose and lighting up those stupid freckles. Ian’s breathing is shallow but steady, the firm view of muscle showing up just under the thin fabric of his shirt. Mickey gulps, dropping the plate of pancakes down on the counter and it comes back full force, that goddamn straining against his lower body.

A breath of a swear escapes his lips and he more noisily pads back to his room, knocking his body into his bathroom door to get it open. It’s pretty small for just one person — the tiles cracked and the window caked with years of rust but as Mickey leans over the small porcelain sink, he can only focus on his own reflection. There are very few times that Mickey ever really looks at himself. He usually manages brief glances in a mirror to check his hair or his reflection in the rain puddles on his walks to work but when he really looks at himself, Mickey can’t always stomach what he sees. 

The bags under his eyes have gotten better in the last month but his face is tired, pallid, void, lost... confused? Fine lines have etched their way into the space around his eyes, into the soft canvas of his forehead. He can’t remember when he lost his youth or if he ever had it in the first place, but he feels miles away from Ian in that instance. Ian isn’t like him. Ian has life and Mickey is a weary man trying to be the hero to someone who didn’t ask to be saved. 

Maybe that’s the biggest joke. That Mickey thinks he could save anyone. 

“Mickey?”

Mickey jolts suddenly at the sound of his name, knocking his hip against the edge of the sink. “Jesus Christ, fuck!” He swears loudly, almost losing control of his own two feet and he reaches to balance himself by gripping tightly to the porcelain. His chest heaves raggedly and his defenses kick back in, a punch straight to the gut that brings him to reality. 

“Mickey, you in there?”

It takes him a few seconds of muttering to himself before Mickey dares to step out, his cheeks flaming pink. Ian is standing not even five feet away, his posture slouched and the remnants of sleep keeping his eyes half lidded. His shirt hangs halfway off his body and he looks more exhausted standing there, more strung out than he did when he was asleep. 

“What?” Mickey says dumbly, casting his eyes down at the ground for a brief moment as he pushes himself out of his thoughts. 

“Good morning,” Ian replies back casually, not looking the least bit put-off but he does watch Mickey intently and for once Mickey can’t blame him. 

“Morning.” Mickey clears his throat and reaches over to grab one of his extra Patsy’s shirts to chuck at Ian. He catches it sluggishly but easily, holding it loose in his grip. “Put a real fucking shirt on and come eat.”

Mickey brushes past Ian then but on instinct, leaves a wider margin of space between their bodies as he does so. Everything in the kitchen is how he left it — two haphazard plates of food on the counter while coffee bubbles in the nearly ancient pot by the fridge. 

Ian follows in his wake after a moment, the shirt now over his shoulder instead of in his hand. Mickey thinks about griping at him to put it on but instead he waves at Ian to sit down while he stands on the other side, picking at a piece of bread. 

“Looks good. I didn’t know you could cook anything except burgers,” Ian mumbles as he slides into the counter chair, picking up his fork and stabbing it into a poor excuse for a pancake. 

There’s an air of silence that reverberates between them and Ian is so calm, too calm. He sits there without so much as a hint of worry on his face and Mickey can’t ask why without breaking that fine line of tension in the air. 

“Not a big deal.” He opts for instead, chomping down on a rather blackened end of toast. 

“Yeah.” Ian stuffs his mouth for a few minutes, chewing away without complaint but the inevitable strikes and Mickey pauses. “So — what happened last night?”

Tell the truth or lie. Pretend it didn’t happen or deal with it. Mickey could imagine himself at the beginning of two crossroads, two distinct paths. One was clear, nothing to get in his way, nothing to trip him up while the other was riddled with obstacles. It was the choice between what is easy and what is difficult and Mickey has done his fair share of difficult. 

Mickey shrugs, knocking back his orange juice that he may or may not have spiked — just to take the edge off. “Found you out on the street. Pretty out of it so I brought you here.”

“What were you doing out?” Ian asks and while Mickey can’t read his expression, he swears that he sees Ian’s lips turn up slightly. 

“Walking.” It’s a piss poor excuse, not convincing in the slightest and Mickey waits for Ian to call him out. 

“Just walking?”

“Yeah. Just walking.”

“Okay, Mick.” Ian nods, setting down his fork and he smiles. Smiles just like he does every single damn day and Mickey feels knocked back. 

That’s it? That’s all he has to say?

That same pressure on his throat comes back and Mickey reaches to slide his own plate into the sink, inadvertently flashing the bruises along his right hand. Ian’s eyes follow it, narrow in on it but Mickey is quick to pull back. 

“Hurry up. We got work.”

The next hour goes by in a flash. Mickey lets Ian have the first go at the shower while he paces back and forth in the living room, tosses the blanket Ian slept with into the hamper. He washes the plates, messes with the fridge just to occupy his hands. His pulse races with every second that passes and he can feel it thudding in his veins. 

Does Ian remember? Does he care? Does he think Mickey is a huge fucking creep? What is it? 

Clearly, it eats away at Mickey more than it does at Ian, who comes out of the shower minutes later, dressed in Mickey’s shirt and his same pants from the night before. The difference in their body types becomes even more distinct as the grey fabric of their uniform stretches in ungodly ways over Ian’s chest. 

Mickey catches himself staring and clears his throat, snapping at Ian for no apparent reason. “Don’t touch my shit while I’m gone,” he tells him as he moves toward the bathroom while Ian skirts around him, taking a load off on the couch he had previously slept on.

“Yes, sir.”

Turning the shower on cold, as ice cold as he can get, Mickey lets the water soothe his aching muscles and calm the headache that’s threatening to form. He pushes at the running questions from the night before, grapples with visions of Ian dancing, and collides with the burning realization that he still doesn’t understand why. 

He shouldn’t have gotten involved but he’s here now. It’s too late. 

Mickey gets out of the shower and changes behind closed doors, secretly hoping that whatever lingers between the two of them has faded but when he sees Ian half dozing on his couch, he knows it’s not that easy. 

“Gallagher. Let’s go,” he calls out, jingling his keys as he slides his boots on and makes a point not to look too closely at Ian for the time being. 

Ian groans as he wakes again, smoothing his hands over his pants as he stands. He looks almost ridiculous with his bottom half in bell bottoms and dress shoes but Mickey keeps his mouth shut about it. He heads out the door instead, leaving it held open long enough for Ian to follow suit and walk out with him. 

The temperature is reaching boiling already and the rays of the sun shoot back up from the pavement in scalding bouts of steam. Ian raises a hand up to his eyes, clearly more sensitive after his round with the bottle and a good gram of drugs. 

“Never been out here before,” he states as they start walking, a good foot or two of space between them. 

Mickey shrugs, digging a cigarette out of his pocket to light up between his lips. “Same shithole as everywhere else.”

“Different part of our shitty neighborhood. Kind of out of the way…” Ian looks over at him, his lips pursed slightly. 

Mickey scratches at his brow, that same dull pink color overtaking his cheeks. “I like to walk far.”

“Oh, do you?” Ian chuckles low, his chin angling up toward the sky as he smirks.

Fucking prick. 

“Mhmm.”

It’s all that Mickey can say and he makes sure to cut Ian off at the pass before he can ask anymore questions. He takes the stairs up to the L two at a time and Ian keeps up, bumping into him as a round of passengers pushes past them. Every slight bump sends a shock wave through Mickey and he hates it. Hates that he doesn’t understand. 

The pair wait for the next train to slide down the tracks and they enter together, right alongside the other commuters. Mickey walks down the aisle in front of Ian and purposely stops in front of a set of chairs that are all vacant, leaving more than enough space for Ian to sit. He takes the one closest to a door, resting his head back against the glass and Ian stops just beside him, staring at the chairs. 

He sniffs once and instead of taking literally any chair in the row, he shamelessly proceeds to take the chair right beside Mickey. Ian’s bare arm presses right into Mickey’s and he’s overwhelmed by how warm he is, like a fucking furnace. 

Mickey’s glare turns deadly and he flares his nostrils in Ian’s direction, only catching the other’s attention when he clears his throat. 

“What? Saving space.”

It takes a good amount of control for Mickey not to throttle him and he keeps his mouth shut as the train fills up at the next stops, making it impossible for Ian to move anyway. The more people that pile in, the closer Ian pushes into him — enough that their knees knock together. 

“Do you fucking mind?” Mickey growls under his breath, only loud enough for Ian to hear. 

“Grumpy,” Ian mutters back and he moves his arm to give them some space, much to Mickey’s surprise. 

He’s tempted to thank him until Ian makes a quick shift, throwing his arm behind Mickey and resting it on the back of his chair. Ian’s arm hairs tickle at the back of his neck and Mickey is convinced he’s going to suffocate. 

The rest of the train ride feels like an eternity and Mickey knocks Ian once in the ribs when they get to their right stop. “Hurry up, we’re late.”

Ian coughs at the rough nudge but he laughs as he tags along after Mickey, both of them putting it into double time as the clock clicks closer to 7am. Luckily, the walk from the L is a short one and Mickey makes it in the door first, right as the minute hand meets the top. 

From her spot at the register, Fiona glances up at the sound of the bell and her brows are instantly a centimeter higher when she spots him. “Good morning.” 

“Hey,” Mickey starts, only to stumble when Ian knocks against his back with the dopiest look on his idiot face. 

“Morning, Fi.”

Fiona’s gaze flickers suspiciously between the pair of them and she uses her pen to motion between the space. “You two okay? You look like shit.”

“Long night,” Mickey says immediately, hoping to leave it at that. 

“Party?”

Ian interjects, his smile broad and disarming. “Great party.”

Mickey groans and he stews in his frustration as he makes a bee line for the back, ignoring the way Fiona watches him with more than a little curiosity. 

The rest of the morning goes as usual with Ian acting like nothing happened. It’s almost exactly what Mickey wanted but he waits, waits for Ian to tell him he knows. Something other than torturing him. It doesn’t come though, and by the time Mickey’s break rolls around, he’s hoping to forget it altogether. 

At 11, Ian slides Mickey’s usual sandwich onto the counter and pokes his head out of the window while Mickey fixes himself a cup of coffee. “Light mayo, heavier on the mustard, right?”

“Shut up,” Mickey growls, dumping sugar into his awaiting mug instead of fixing Ian with a cold stare. 

“What? I’m being nice.”

“Fuck off.”

“Enjoy your break.”

Mickey puts on a fake smile and snatches the sandwich off the counter, tucking a magazine under his armpit as he walks over to his usual booth. Today though, there’s someone else occupying it and it's not Sandy. Not anyone he wants to see. 

His flight response kicks in and he turns, ready to sneak off to the back when the cool voice and heavy accent catch his eardrums. 

“Hello, Mikhailo.”

Mickey grits his teeth and turns back, stomping over to the table with several degrees of annoyance written all over his face. 

“You know, I’m getting really tired of everyone sneaking up on me,” Mickey snaps and the woman across from him smiles, her red nails clacking on the wood tabletop. “Shouldn't you be in Vegas with my brother?”

In the light of day, Svetlana’s presence isn’t nearly as intimidating. In fact, Mickey might even go as far as to say she was quite beautiful. Scary, but beautiful. “Manners, Mikhailo.” She walks her fingers along the etchings in the table, clicking her tongue. “I deal with business personally. So I come to visit you.”

Mickey wishes that for one day, for one single day that things would go his way but clearly, he was batting a thousand.

“Look, we’re square. Sandy told me. I don’t owe you shit.”

“I know. I got the money,” Svetlana says and she reaches out, poking a fry with one of her sharp claws. 

“Then what?”

He can feel her circling him. The shark that circles around their prey for hours to exhaust them. Circle them, torture them until they can’t fight back. Svetlana is itching to dig her teeth into him and not let go. He knows it, he can feel it. 

“I come to ask you to work for me. I don’t assume they pay you good money.” She motions to the counter where Fiona is talking to Sean, her expression young and gleeful as she nibbles at Mickey’s ankles. 

Mickey‘s teeth grind together and from under the table, his injured hand curls into a fist. He envies her strength but loathes it at the same time. “Not interested.”

The answer comes out without much thinking and Mickey is taken aback by his own certainty. It was one thing to fulfill his end of the deal, make amends for his shortcomings but he’s not fool enough to swim with sharks. Not when his life is just becoming a semblance of something real. 

“No? Your father said you would be.” 

The mention of his father had a cold sweat break on the back of his neck, spreading along the front of his chest but he refuses to let her see him crack. He presses his lips together, takes a rather ravenous bite of his sandwich, enough that he spits when he talks. “Yeah well he doesn’t know shit.”

Svetlana stays quiet then, her eyes searching Patsy’s from top to bottom. She commits every bit of it to memory, her cool gaze catching the attention of the patrons around them. Much like Ian, she’s calm. Too calm. But the worry she inspires in Mickey is far different from the worry Ian creates. 

“Hmm, my mistake,” she eventually says, meeting Mickey’s eyes once more. Her hand moves closer but instead of taking a fry, it curls around Mickey’s arm tightening in a way that is less than friendly. It’s a small bite, a warning. “Take care of yourself, Mikhailo.”

Svetlana loosens her grip and stands, revealing the short patterned dress on her frame. She’s not dressed like the woman he met in Vegas, she’s dressed like someone who wants to blend in. She clicks her tongue once more but says nothing else, turning on her heels, their soft clack on the floor ringing in Mickey’s ears. 

His mouth goes dry as the bell rings at her departure and Mickey pushes his food away, his appetite completely vanishing. 

One thing he knows for sure — sharks never stay away for long. 

\-- 

Mickey manages the rest of his shift with little to no incident but his thoughts run a mile a minute. Ian is soon tucked away for the time being and he considers all the scenarios, all the dark clouds that Svetlana’s return could spell for him. For Sandy. The drug trade put him in prison once, there was no doubting it could happen again and the thought of prison turns his stomach. It gnaws away at him from a different angle, different from anything Ian did and once the time hits 4pm, all Mickey wants is a drink. 

He makes his way to The Alibi by 5pm to meet Lip for their regular though not planned meetings, but Kev hands him a note from the man himself, directing him to meet up at the Gallagher house. Problem 1 meets Problem 2. That was the catch 22 of maybesort-of being friends with someone who was related to someone that made Mickey’s brain run laps in his head. The headache he tried to combat beats at his temples as he goes in the direction of the Gallagher house, dragging his feet all the way there. 

Mickey hears the clamoring from the inside as a mixture of male and female voices bark over each other. It’s not a far cry from his own experiences back home but he knows there’s love within their walls. The Milkovich house never held any love. Taking the steps up, Mickey walks in and immediately has to dodge the red headed toddler from the party, who is followed closely by her mom that he now knows is Debbie, Sandy’s new friend. 

As Debbie heads up the stairs after her daughter, Sandy appears from the kitchen in their wake. “Oh hey Mick.” She claps his shoulder and slides a beer into his hand, her face only reading happiness. “The guys are in the kitchen.”

Mickey opens his mouth to tell her they need to talk. To tell her what happened but he can’t bring himself to do it. Not when she’s happier than he’s seen her in years. He stops at the foot of the stairs, catching the light in Sandy’s eyes and the dreamy way she calls Debbie’s name. It’s like nothing he’s seen from her before and his brows stitch together, wondering what that whole thing is about. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about Sandy. 

Still, he resolves to leave it for now, letting the bigger fish be the first ones to fry. What Sandy doesn’t know won’t hurt her and Mickey can handle it on his own. He’ll handle it. He will. 

He brings the ice cold beer up to his lips and knocks back a quarter of it before stepping into the kitchen, seeing Lip and Ian chatting idly at the dining table. One of their younger brothers, Carl, has his head buried in the fridge as he searches for something to eat. 

“You made it,” Lip says once he sees him, kicking the chair at the head of the table out for Mickey to sit down. 

Ian’s eyes are already on him, staring straight into him but Mickey ignores it as he takes the spot offered to him. Nothing happens at first, the three men taking turns talking about mindless shit and switching out who picks the station on the radio perched on the counter. 

It takes about an hour and five solid beers later for Mickey to start to get the hit from it, the relief only temporary but oh so sweet. Ian brings back another beer just as Mickey finishes his last one and he cracks into it without hesitating. The radio station flips and a new song plays, crooning into the empty space. 

_The southside of Chicago is the baddest part of town. If you go down there, you better just beware of a man by the name of Leroy Brown_. 

Lip chuckles as he watches Mickey, his fingers curled around a beer of his own. A permanent fixture in the man’s hand. “You good, man? You usually don’t drink me under the table.”

Mickey finishes his swig and clears his throat, casting a sideways glance toward Ian, who is distracted by Carl in the kitchen. “Yeah, just thinking.”

“About?”

“Personal shit.”

“Sounds boring.” Lip brings the bottle to his mouth, his throat bobbing as he drinks nearly half of it in one go. Mickey doesn’t ask about Lip’s drinking, doesn’t match it up to his own. It’s just what they do. It’s how they communicate. Nothing wrong with that. 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Mickey quips back, knocking his bottle against Lip’s as a gesture of appreciation. He doesn’t need someone to talk to, Mickey needs someone who understands and Lip fits the bill. Easy and simple. Not complicated. 

Lip goes to say something else but the rotary phone hanging on the Gallagher’s decaying wall rings obnoxiously. Carl runs to go grab it, putting the receiver up to his ear. He talks for only a few seconds before holding the phone out to his brother. “Lip, Brad’s on the phone.”

“Duty calls.” Lip leaves his beer behind on the table and goes to take the call, his chair now empty. 

It takes barely a minute for Ian to take up the spot, his beer replaced by a bottle of coke. “I’m really starting to think you like my brother more than me.”

Mickey shakes his head and focuses on his beer, letting the cool liquid give him clarity. He can’t keep faltering in front of Ian. “How’d you figure?”

Ian laughs, taking a sip of his coke in contrast to Mickey’s beer. He’s more alert now, the remnants of the night prior long gone. He’s not the guy dancing in a gay club, drugs pounding through his system. No, he’s just Ian again. Dopey, happy, easy going Ian. Lucky him. 

“Look—” Mickey begins and he almost loses his nerve but Ian is looking at him again, those green eyes making him squirm. “We’re good after that shit from this morning, right?”

It seems like an odd question judging from Ian’s expression and he leans back in his chair, one hand pushing a loose strand of hair away from his face. “Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?”

“Don’t know. Guess I just thought —”

Ian interrupts with a brief puff of laughter, his chair balancing back on two legs. “You thought I’d ask more questions.” And of course he knows exactly what Mickey is thinking before he even says it. “You took care of me, Mick. That’s all I need to know.”

The casualness isn’t forced. It’s natural, free flowing and Mickey has to let it sink in that maybe he was worrying about nothing. Maybe him saving Ian wasn’t that big of a deal. Maybe he can let it mean nothing. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because I trust you.” And suddenly that thought is thrown out the window. It means something. Mickey isn’t someone people trust. He hasn’t done anything to earn it. He’s the man that people run from, that people try to escape. But Ian’s words are earnest, his eyes are clear, his skin is flushed as he takes another sip of his drink. “And I know you’re a better guy than you think you are.”

Mickey exhales shakily and he knows the words won’t process fully until later. Until the alcohol clears enough to let his brain accept this new fact. “You must be crazy, man.” He laughs to clear the air, eliciting a similar reaction out of Ian. 

“Yeah, maybe a little bit.” He pauses, softness in his expression as Lip hangs up the phone behind them. They won’t talk about it when Lip is there so this is the only moment they have. One moment of honesty. “So we’re good?”

Mickey stops, taking his bottle and clinking it with Ian’s gently. “Yeah, we’re good.”

\-- 

The next four days are a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Every day that Mickey heads into Patsy’s, he expects to see Svetlana there waiting for him — her red nails tapping to the point that it grits on his nerves. But then there’s Ian and every day, Mickey waits for something to click in his head, for something to finally give him some clarity but it’s not there. It’s close but it’s not there. The uncertainty of both situations has him reeling and his sleep has diminished back down to nothing. The following Wednesday morning, he heads into work with eye bags so dark that they contrast sharply with his pale skin, giving the appearance of someone sickly. Even Fiona stops him on his way in, offering him coffee because she’s tired of “seeing him look like shit.”

Ian stays silent about it for the most part, though he does give Mickey an extra helping of fries on his break, slides him some water and a couple of tablets of headache medicine. Mickey doesn’t thank him but he takes them anyway and waits. He watches the clock his whole break, waits for Svetlana, waits for the next break to his sanity but she doesn’t come. She doesn’t come at noon or two or three or four. 

She doesn’t come at all. 

Four PM rolls around yet again and Mickey lets himself breathe, finding an ounce of hope buried somewhere in the recesses of his mind. It could be that simple. Maybe Svetlana got tired of begging, found the other Milkovich men more helpful than him. Maybe if he hoped hard enough, that would be it. The dark clouds and the sharks wouldn’t follow him onto dry land. 

“Heading out?” Ian meets Mickey back toward the punch out, leaning against the door frame with a spatula in hand. He’s working a double, one of his only ones on his schedule from what Mickey remembers. 

Mickey grabs his card and slides it into the machine, waiting for the sound of the hole punch before sliding it back out. “Yeah, gonna head back before Sandy takes over my fucking place again.”

“You guys wanna come over later? Gallagher family pizza night.”

It’s become a new regular thing — Mickey at the Gallagher house. Not just to see Lip but sometimes — sometimes he goes to see Ian, too. 

“Beer?”

Ian laughs, checking for Fiona behind his shoulder. “Always.”

“I’ll think about it,” Mickey tells him right as Fiona appears around the corner, giving Ian the tell tale look to ‘get the hell back to work.’

He nods at his sister, motioning for one minute as he slowly backs away from Mickey. “I’ll take it. If anything, I’ll catch you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see ya.” Mickey spares a half smile and Ian returns it, baring his teeth at Fiona as he passes to go back to the grill. 

Mickey hangs up his apron and says bye to the rest of the guys, gives Fiona a brief wave as he heads out for his walk to the L. While the thoughts of Ian cloud his mind, they don’t hang as heavy as they usually do. For once, Mickey feels light on his feet — so much so that he hums to a tune in his head as he takes the train back to his apartment. Sandy mentioned stopping by but she’s so all over the place that Mickey can barely pin her down. His best hope is that she got caught up at work, giving him the night to himself. 

Mickey gets off the L with a slight hop, tapping his fingers along his thigh as he walks the two blocks toward his measly apartment. On days like this, even the shittiest place on the block feels like a haven, a place where he’s untouchable. He thinks about the leftover spaghetti in his fridge, he thinks about telling Sandy that they should look into getting her a new car. He thinks about possibilities. Taking his keys out of his pocket, Mickey briefly casts his eyes down and misses the fact that he’s not alone on the street. 

“Hey Mick. Long time.” 

Mickey stops in his tracks and his heart leaps, painfully crashing against his ribcage. It’s a hard fall from his pedestal, a crash landing back to the bottom. Back to where he belongs. The airy feeling in his chest is suddenly replaced with a brick the size of a school bus, heavy and grounding. He jolts back to earth and away from the clouds. Nothing is alright. Nothing can be okay. 

Just off to the side of the road is his brother, Colin, and Mickey flashes back to the last time they saw each other. Back in the desert. Everything about him is the same — his eyes, his stance, the dirt around his face and buried under his fingernails. Milkovich through and through. Colin’s arms are crossed over his chest and the smile on his face is smug, all knowing, not one that’s happy to see his younger brother. 

“Colin,” Mickey says and he hides the shock behind a furrowed brow, a strong stance of his own as he squares his shoulders. He braces himself for the inevitable blow of what Colin’s presence means. 

They found him. 

“Haven’t come by the house. Why’s that, huh?” Colin takes a few steps forward and Mickey doesn’t flinch. It’s not Colin he’s worried about. It’s about who is bound to come along with him. “Too good for us now?”

Mickey can see the door of his house just behind Colin’s left shoulder and he’s sure he could make a mad dash for it, run away before it was too late but his fucking pride growls and barks — hisses to protect his own skin. He can’t just run away. 

“Been busy. You know how it is. Parole.” Mickey speaks as relaxed as he can, letting his words roll out calmly because anything else and they’d smell it on him. Fear. 

“Yeah no, I don’t think I do.” 

Still, as Mickey stands there, two other men come out of the shadows and his heart thuds harder, faster - dangerous licks of fire shooting through his blood. His cousins, Joey and Jamie, step out, both of them inches taller than both Mickey and Colin. Sandy’s brothers. Broad-shouldered and dirty. The quintessential delinquents of the back of the yards. Nearly 30 and still following orders like little kids out to impress their hero.

He can’t tell which one is worse — their mindless devotion or Mickey’s constant fear.

“What do you want?” Mickey raises his brow at them, already curling his fingers at his sides to show that he’s ready. He hasn’t lost the instinct to fight. He’s not weak. 

“We want to talk business.” He is too relaxed when he says it. Too proud of himself. Mickey knows he could take Colin on his own, having beaten his brother to a pulp on more than one occasion but with backup, his spine has magically grown back. Colin thinks he’s someone when he’s with the other Milkoviches. “Right, dad?”

Dad.

And suddenly Mickey is seventeen again, the pressure of his dad’s fist still present on the underside of his chin. Goosebumps crawl across his skin and ghosts of bruises make their way to the forefront, aching after years of having stayed hidden. His bones that were once broken by Terry crack open again, disintegrate in a way that makes Mickey feel on the borderline of collapse. 

It’s been thousands of days and millions of minutes but none of them did Terry Milkovich any favors. He comes out of the woodwork with the same stocky frame, the same square jaw. His shirt is an old and faded tank top, the black color worn into grey with small cigarette holes burned into the fabric. He’s still the same stone cold bastard that Mickey never forgot minus the age lines around his eyes, the faded quality of his tattoos. He’s old, older but Terry is the same. He doesn’t ever change. 

For years, Mickey told himself not to be scared. He didn’t have to worry about Terry when he got out. The man would be dead or in prison or he’d forget all about his failure of a son. He wouldn’t come after him but Mickey knew deep down he was wrong. He knew it would never end until his father was six feet under. He’s like a cockroach, vermin, something that never dies no matter how many times you try to put it down. He lives to remind Mickey of how wrong he is, of how wrong his existence is. An inconvenience to the world around him. 

Mickey knows it’s far from over. It’s only just beginning. 

Terry takes several steps forward with the other boys flanking him from the back and Mickey’s legs turn to stone, trapping him in place. The bruises on his knuckles flare up and he itches to fight, urges himself to fucking do something. To stop it before it begins but he doesn’t do a thing. He lets it happen.

“Ungrateful kid. Won’t even come say hi to dear old dad.” Terry chuckles lowly but his face is stern, etched like a stone statue with anger seething just under the surface. 

“Just going by the book, pops. I did my time.”

Terry takes another few steps forward and he’s in Mickey’s face, reading him. His dad isn’t the smartest or the fastest but he can read Mickey, get under his skin like a parasite and ruin him in every way a person can be ruined. Mickey never found a way to fight back against that kind of poison. 

There’s a long pause and Mickey can smell the stench of Jack Daniels murky in Terry’s breath. “You think you’re better than us now, boy? Is that it? You get some shit job and think you’re not like us?”

Mickey doesn’t answer but his jaw twitches, every nerve ending in his whole being on red alert. Run. Stop. Do something. Telling him he doesn’t deserve it but maybe he does. 

Maybe he deserves this. 

When Mickey doesn’t answer, Terry grabs him forcefully by the shirt and lugs him forward, spitting in his face. “You fucking talk when I ask you a question.” 

And Mickey is a child again. A kid who got clocked for forgetting to pick up his one toy. A kid who had a gun in his hand before his mom was ever allowed to hold it. Mickey thought it might be different this time but it’s always the same. 

Nothing ever changes. 

He still can’t bring himself to speak because he knows none of his answers will be good enough. Nothing he says or any excuses he has will be what his dad wants to hear. Terry tightens his hold until the fabric of Mickey’s shirt twists into his neck and starts cutting off his airway, making him choke. 

“Heard you said no to the Russian.” Terry is only inches away from his face, every word feeling like tiny blows against the framework Mickey built up over the last month. The life he thought he could have. His vision blurs as he struggles for air, his still bruised hand trying to wrap around his dad’s wrist to get him off. “Funny that you think you’ve got a choice.”

Terry lets him go but as Mickey wobbles back on his feet, he pulls his fist back and launches it right across his son’s face with a deafening crack against his cheekbone. Mickey is knocked back onto the ground and he spits blood on the concrete, his body already screaming at him from the sudden rush of air that’s flooding his lungs. His hand drags along the jagged street and leaves haphazard cuts along his palm as he begins to stand. 

It’s in him to fight back, to try and take a swing at him but before he can get to his feet, Terry takes a swift kick to his ribcage, digging his boot into Mickey’s sternum. He can hear the rumbling of his brothers’ laughter and he groans, his vision already going black around the edges. 

“Can’t even fight anymore. Prison turn you into a fairy, kid?” Terry mocks him and he drags Mickey by his collar again, aiming his face up into the sun that nearly blinds him. He brings his fist against Mickey’s face again, one punch after another and Mickey is sure his blood is splattering the sidewalk in a macabre display of his inferiority. 

It doesn’t feel real. It never does. Mickey found ways to distract from the pain, ways to steel himself from who he’s let himself become. Bruises were temporary but he thought maybe the rest could be bottled away, stored away until it wasn’t real anymore. But it’s always real. It never went away. 

Terry drops Mickey to the ground in a heap and his brothers step forward, like carnival goers waiting to take their shot at the new game. Each one roundhousing a kick to his chest, his stomach, his face. The air echoes with the snapping of his skin, the cracking of his bones, the stomping of their boots. 

Mickey doesn’t blame them. They’re just as scared as he is.

Time goes by in slow intervals and Mickey isn’t aware of how much time has passed. Two minutes or two hours. The overwhelming pain he feels can’t tell the difference. Eventually, the three men back off and Terry steps back in, hovering over Mickey’s body as he takes his busted chin in between his meaty fingers. He can’t see himself but Mickey knows his face is unrecognizable, now more of a reflection of his insides — ugly and twisted. 

“You’re a Milkovich. Start acting like one.”

The sound of his dad’s voice is only an echo against the empty cave that Mickey’s consciousness has become and he can vaguely hear their boots scraping the pavement as they leave him there, leaving his crumpled body as simply a casualty of what needed to be done. There are no saviors in this, no one to come to Mickey’s aid. No heroes to save him. No, this is the real normal. This is what happens to men like Mickey. This is what he deserves. 

Mickey’s view of the ground starts fading out, the sensation of his blood pooling into his shirt the last thing that he feels before everything goes black. 

He’s just a Milkovich and maybe that’s all he’ll ever be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me at:  
> [@s11mikhailo](https://twitter.com/s11mikhailo) \- twitter // [xgoldendays](https://xgoldendays.tumblr.com) \- tumblr //  
> [statichearts](https://t.co/MeOUvx4f9O?amp=1) \- curiouscat


	13. Don't Fear The Reaper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here we go, finally! this chapter took me a bit but that's real life for you. It's also shorter than I usually go but this one really had to stand on its own because chapter 14 is going to be a big one all on its own. Still as always, I hope you all enjoy and thank you for reading!!
> 
> and my love always to [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse) and [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor) for collecting my tears in a bucket.

Mickey is used to pain. 

It started when he was six and his mom gave him his very first toy that hadn’t belonged to Colin or Iggy beforehand. One that was his own — special, unique, brand new. Mickey’s. Back then, Mickey didn’t have much of his own, so once he had something, he fought to keep it. Cherished it. Especially if it came from his mom.

Terry never saw it the same way. 

No, unlike Mickey’s mother who gave to her children, Terry only knew how to take away. He only knew how to hurt them. 

Where his mother was soft — a junkie with a heart of gold who took blows for her children — Terry was hard. Mickey wasn’t allowed to cry or to talk too loudly, to ask questions, to be too much of a pussy. He wasn’t allowed to be soft. Milkoviches weren’t soft. The back hand of a tattooed fist taught him that. It conditioned him into becoming nearly as rock solid as Terry. 

Nearly but not quite the same. 

There was still some part of him that hoped, a part of him that refused to lie down — that bit back and spit but when Mickey lost her at the age of 14, he taught himself to not want anything, to never love anyone, to never aim for the stars. Because it was only a matter of time before Mickey would crash land back to earth, before he lost it all. 

No, he never got to _have_ anything. Losing his mother taught him that. 

So now that he had a life, it only made sense that Terry would take it out from under him. Mickey should have seen it coming. He shouldn’t have hoped for so much. He shouldn’t have let himself believe. That was the real problem. That’s where he messed up.

As Mickey’s world comes back into view, the battered parts of his body wake up one by one — each bringing a resurgence of numbness that spreads through his bones. He doesn’t move at first, blinking blearily as the street comes back in a haze — a halo of darkness slowly fading around the edges of his sight. The streetlights start to turn on, casting a faint yellow tint over the pavement in front of him and it highlights the blood stains on the street.

It feels like a joke, like a big laugh at his expense. The newly released convict Milkovich beaten in the street by his brothers and father. The laughing stock of his family name.

A car horn honks in the far off distance and Mickey drags his right palm across the gravel, feeling the sharp point of rock embedding itself into his skin. He pulls his hand up toward his chest and pushes downward in a half assed attempt to get his body off the ground. It’s only for a minute but Mickey’s fingers tremble under the weight and he collides against the ground, an ache rumbling through his chest and along the back of his neck. 

At least a decent sized bruise, if not a cracked rib. He flexes each hand — no broken fingers but his previously healing knuckles have burst open in angry splotches to accompany his scratched up tattoos. For a second, he wonders if anyone saw him but in this city, who would care? A guy left alone on the street, busted and bruised? Not exactly the first occurrence in the Southside. No one gives a shit unless it’s about them. 

Another honk and Mickey groans, using both hands this time to push himself upward, enough that he can get his knee up and against the ground. He uses it for leverage and uses all the energy he has left to push himself upward, gritting his teeth against the pain. His boot connects with the ground and Mickey manages to find his balance but the back of his knee throbs, his hip feeling slotted out of place. 

Each step he takes drags against the pavement, scraping up the one decent pair of shoes he has. His apartment isn’t far away but the distance keeps extending, his eyes hazy as he tries to count the steps it takes to get from light post to light post. 

It feels like he’s viewing himself from the outside, watching how pathetic he must look dragging his still breathing corpse.

It takes 200 steps to get back to the apartment and Mickey’s knuckles bleed onto his pant leg as he attempts to dig into his pocket for his key. It’s just another round of scars, another round of blood that he’ll leave on the streets of Chicago but it feels so final. Mickey isn’t sure he has it in him to fight anymore but dying? Damn it, he’s too stubborn to die. That’s exactly what Terry wants. 

He manages to get the door open, the faint cast of light coming in through the open curtains. Mickey leaves the lamps on and moves through the darkness toward the bathroom, able to get through muscle memory alone. Every inch of him is screaming at different octaves that only Mickey can hear - his brain throbbing in double time to connect all the pieces while his heart pounds faster, just as stubborn to keep him alive. 

Mickey is just able to reach the sink, curling his hands around the edge of it and he’s scared. Almost too scared to look at himself in the mirror. The man he was becoming won’t be there anymore, replaced by who everyone thinks Mickey is — a monster. Craning his head up, he finally decides to look and his breath catches at what he sees. His right eye is swelling considerably, a deep cut along the side of his cheek from where the skin burst open, his lip is busted, — dark purple and clotting —and the blood from his nose runs down across his mouth until it collects in his teeth. 

Terry wins. Again. Like he always does. 

Mickey spits into the sink, the white porcelain getting stained with a clot of blood. The air pushes its way out of his lungs and he shakes, every nerve ending vibrating at the same time. He turns on the sink and watches the water turn bright red until it swirls down the drain, never to be seen again. Every hope he built up over the last month washing away as if it was never there. Safety, happiness, as fleeting as the blood Mickey continuously shed. 

It’s a lot like he’s the one drowning. His whole self being flushed away. Each drop that falls is another loss, another part of himself that he’ll never see again and Mickey can’t stop it. He can’t close the wounds fast enough before every good thing about him is emptied and drowned. 

It all builds up at the same time, like a tidal wave that forces Mickey down underwater and chokes him — not letting him just fucking exhale. His vision starts to blur as hot and angry tears burn behind his eyes, sliding out and making streaks draw outlines into his filthy skin. 

And Mickey will fall in line. Like he always does. Because you can’t shatter what’s already been broken. 

One hand comes up and Mickey roughly brushes away at the tears, only getting blood to collect on his face to replace it. He runs his palms through the water and splashes the cool liquid onto his wounds, a half assed attempt at getting clean.

Mickey has always known that cleaning up the mess doesn’t erase it. He carries it, he takes the wounds with him and they never heal; they only know how to reopen and torment him again. 

He doesn’t heal. The scars will always be there to remind him.

Taking a deep breath, Mickey drags himself out of the bathroom and over to his bed. His knees threaten to give out only a few feet from the mattress and he collapses, gripping the edge of the sheets to hold himself steady. He pulls himself into the bed with a squeak and there’s temporary relief from being somewhere soft and solid. 

At worst, there’s a concussion but he can’t fight the way his eyelids grow heavy. It mingles with the throbbing, the hammering of his brain against his skull and he gives in after only a few minutes, falling victim to the desire to fall asleep and never wake up. 

To Mickey, it’s at most a few minutes that he’s been out, rattled only by an onslaught of chaotic nightmares before he hears a knocking at the very edge of his consciousness. He must be imagining it but it’s persistent, every few seconds brings another round of thudding and he growls at the interruption. Let him sleep. Let him give up in peace. 

When Mickey doesn’t answer, the knocking turns into pounding and it grows almost borderline frantic with each passing second. If his throat wasn’t constricted, caved in by exhaustion, he would have snapped at them. Told them to leave him alone for once in his fucking life. Whoever it is though, keeps pushing and Mickey has no choice but to get up to answer it. 

He rolls his body to the side and presses his bare feet into the carpet, ignoring how his skin tears and burns with every movement. It takes him a good few minutes to even make it to the living room and by that time, the knocking has turned into speaking — a soft but commanding voice that jolts into Mickey’s heart. 

“Mickey? Come the fuck on, Mickey.” 

_Gallagher?_

Mickey stops in his tracks, a rush of cold making goose bumps prickle over his arms. He stares at the door and hears the small collision of a palm against the wood, much more gentle than it was previously. 

“I know you’re in there. Just—fucking open the door.” 

_What does he want? What is he doing here?_

The realization knocks Mickey back and the ache of his whole body turns back on him, goes inward and causes his heart muscle to throb in his chest. Ian came here to look for him. He’s here for Mickey and that’s a much harder pill to swallow than knowing his new life isn’t his own anymore. 

Mickey stays silent for a minute longer only to be met with more knocking, the constant noise grating on his nerves. He leans his weak frame against the door, resting his forehead to the wood. “Fuck off, Gallagher.”

A pause and a shuffle come before Ian speaks, the relief obvious on his strained tone. “Jesus, where the fuck have you been? You missed your shift, asshole,” he scolds him but there’s no real anger behind it. Just worry or at least Mickey thinks that’s what it is. 

Ian worries about him. 

Mickey looks back toward the clock and sees the minute hand crawl to the twelve, five minutes to noon. Had it been that long? 

He groans softly, his knees knocking against the door frame as they give warning signals of giving out on him. “Fuck, look—some shit came up.”

“Shit that’s worth screwing your parole up over?”

Mickey doesn’t blink at Ian’s assumption, the pieces to that mystery have been more than laid out for him and he’s right — if Larry finds out, he’s fucked. Worse than he already is. 

“I’ll handle it. Not your problem.”

Ian’s scoff can be heard through the barrier between them and he goes from knocking to rattling the door knob. “Just open the door and I’ll judge that for myself.”

“Why don’t you ever fuck off when I tell you to?” Mickey bites back, remembering that Ian is not only insistent but annoying. 

“Never learned how to listen,” Ian counters immediately. “I’m not leaving until you open up. Or should I call Sandy and tell her?”

Sandy. Jesus. Now that’s playing low blows. 

Mickey grits his teeth and with almost no way of getting out of it, he undoes the chain on the door and carefully yanks it open but only enough that the right side of his face is all that’s visible. There’s no hiding the marks, the yellowing bruises but some small part of Mickey hopes that Ian won’t ask. 

It’s silent as he looks up, meeting Ian’s bewildered gaze. His eyes are bright in the afternoon sun, his pupils full blown and searching as his mouth falls open in shock. When Mickey really looks at him, the contrast hits him again. How different they are. Ian is still in his shirt from Patsy’s, the grey material blotched with grease stains while his skin is clear, clean, untainted. 

Good for him. 

When Ian doesn’t speak, Mickey sighs heavily and casts his eyes downward in annoyance. “Told you to fuck off,” he snarks at him, using the hand curled around the door to attempt to slam it closed. 

Mickey waits for the slam but it doesn’t come. Instead Ian’s hand shoots out and pushes against the door, his arm muscles straining to hold it open as Mickey counters him. 

“Let me in.”

“Fuck you, I’m fine.”

“Fine? Fine. Right, okay,” Ian scoffs at him again and steps forward until he’s crowding the space in front of the door, bringing himself down until he’s eye to eye with Mickey — only a few inches separating the two of them. “I can do this all day but something tells me you can’t.”

He’s so close that Mickey can smell the bitter wave of coffee on his breath, a faint cast of cinnamon and cigarettes coming from his clothes. He’s so close that Mickey catches the hint of stubble on Ian’s chin, the marks on his lips from where he’s been chewing at them. Mickey’s throat tightens, squeezes until he’s suffocating and he swallows thickly, his knuckles contorting in pain as he tries to keep Ian out. 

The pair stare at each other for another few seconds before Mickey finally lets go, the door swinging past his shoulder as Ian pushes it the rest of the way open. Neither speaks right away but Ian peers back over his shoulder, his hands clenching at his sides. Mickey expects him to leave, maybe blow it off like it’s not his problem — because it isn’t — but instead Ian blinks at him, mouth drawn into a straight line.

“Come here and no complaining,” Ian tells him and without much of a warning, he wraps a gentle arm around Mickey’s waist, entirely mindful of touching anything that might be too sensitive. 

The touch is so delicate that Mickey barely feels it through the fabric of his shirt, a soft pressure that presses into the bruises he most likely has against his ribcage. The same smell of cinnamon kicks him in the face but he pushes down the reaction it creates, the heat that burns inside him. 

Ian guides Mickey over to the couch and helps him sit down, propping a pillow just behind his back. Everything about his movements is gentle, calculated, like he’s done this before. Ian eventually sits down beside him, forcing himself into Mickey’s space.

“Pretty nasty gash,” Ian mutters as his fingers come to lightly ghost over the wound on Mickey’s cheek. 

Mickey flinches on instinct, his head jerking enough that the pain hits him in the spine again and he squeezes his eyes closed from the searing sting. It’s when he’s not looking that Mickey feels a warm hand come around to the back of his neck, rough calluses just grazing through his hair. 

It’s so gentle that Mickey doesn’t flinch this time. In fact, maybe he leans into it. Maybe he accepts it. 

Because he’s never felt anything like this. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Ian coos at him and when he says it, Mickey almost believes it. 

The hand on his neck guides his head back up and Mickey is met with Ian’s sharp eyes yet again, eyes that are the only thing tethering him to the current moment. 

“I’m gonna look for something to clean you up, okay? Get you in a new shirt.” Ian’s hand slides along the side of Mickey’s shoulder and slightly down the front of his chest as he gets up, leaving behind a wake of warmth. 

Mickey watches Ian go into his room, turning into the bathroom where he rattles around in the cabinets. Arching back, Mickey lets his head fall against the couch and he closes his eyes, air finally taking the time to fill his lungs. He feels concave, empty, hollow — and Ian is making the sad attempt to fill those holes. 

What he doesn’t know is that Mickey isn’t fixable. Ian isn’t the one who can save him. Not when Mickey can’t even save himself. 

And then there’s Sandy. Sandy who he’ll have to lie to. Sandy who he has to protect. Sandy who can’t get involved. All of this is just another weight that Mickey will carry so she doesn’t have to.

Ian comes back into the room after a few minutes and takes the spot at Mickey’s side again, a bottle of alcohol and cotton wipes in his lap. 

“Is this really all you have?” He starts on immediately as he uncaps the bottle and pours the liquid onto the cotton. 

“Wasn’t really expecting this shit.”

Ian nods and he reaches for Mickey’s left hand, holding it gently in his own as he dabs at the other’s knuckles one by one. He carefully works on each of Mickey’s hands, getting most of the blood off. He does it all in silence, not even speaking when he puts his palm up against Mickey’s neck again to hold him in place. 

“Can I ask or are you not gonna tell me?”

“Nothing to tell,” Mickey mumbles and everything is telling him to pull back, away from Ian’s touch but he doesn’t. What he does do is watch Ian’s every movement, subconsciously memorizing the outlines of his face. 

“You might need stitches for the gash,” Ian says as he glances up at him, one brow raised as he pushes a cotton pad against the marks on Mickey’s cheeks, cleaning up the streaks there from the night before. Their proximity is almost too much, too close for men in the middle of the Southside, but it’s nice.

Maybe Mickey likes it. 

“I’m not going to a doctor.”

Ian sighs and turns to the table behind him to set the cotton pad down, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans. He hesitates for a second but he’s up and off the couch in a second, heading toward the kitchen. “Good thing we know a doctor that will come to you.”

That’s when Mickey’s blood turns to ice in his system, his vocal cords contorting into an ugly knot. “Wait, what?” His voice is hoarse and he tries to get up, only to get a stabbing in his ribs. “Ian, hold up a minute.”

“Where’s the phone?” Ian isn’t listening and instead he finds the rotary phone in Mickey’s bedroom, the sound of the keys clicking only semi audible to him from the living room. 

“Ian.” He tries again to no avail and the comfort he felt is replaced by sudden anguish. Mickey banked on never having to see Ned again, on _Ian_ never seeing him again but clearly neither of the two had come true. 

Mickey attempts to hear their conversation through the paper thin walls but Ian lowers his voice enough that it only comes out in rushed mumbles, like a shady business transaction. They don’t talk for long and when Ian comes back to finish with Mickey, it’s past the point of objecting. 

The half hour it takes for Ned to arrive feels like an eternity with Ian putting the alcohol away, pacing, and fooling around in Mickey’s kitchen trying to make him something to eat. All he manages to find is a beer that he cracks open and Mickey’s halfway empty bottle of whiskey that he pours into a glass. 

“It might help with the sting,” Ian tells him as he pushes the glass into Mickey’s hand. The pain isn’t as prominent as it was, his clean shirt smelling like old laundry detergent but it’s better. It’s something. 

Mickey gives him a small thank you at the same time that a car can be heard grinding along the gravel outside his front door. It’s only a matter of minutes before there’s knocking again and Ian gets up to go answer it, leaving Mickey to sink into the couch in the hopes this is all just a bad dream. 

Ian opens the front door and when Mickey catches a glimpse of Ned, he realizes this is very much his real life. 

The man stands there in his usual clothes — a button up and slacks, sensible shoes, with a black bag curled into his hand. Ned’s grey locks are slicked back so not a single hair is out of place. Everything about him is business as usual — minus his face. The wrinkles on Ned’s skin match perfectly with several large bruises that creep along his cheek and over his left eye. His nose is still bandaged at the bridge but most of the wounds are healing, close to being just a forgotten memory. 

Close but not quite gone. 

Ian stands there, halfway blocking Ned from Mickey’s view and there’s no way he doesn’t see it. He can see it as clear as day. 

“Thanks for coming.” Ian’s voice cracks slightly and he smiles awkwardly, stepping aside for Ned to walk in. 

Mickey has to admit he’s shocked Ned even showed up but he knows it’s more for Ian than out of the kindness of his heart. Once Ned is past Ian, he makes eye contact with Mickey and the two exchange sneers — their contempt not having dissipated in the slightest. Mickey doesn’t regret what he did and when he looks at the expression in Ned’s eyes, he can tell that the other man doesn’t either. Mickey’s blood boils and he clenches his fist so tightly that the pain doesn’t bother him. 

Ned approaches slowly as Ian closes the front door, tension riddled in his shoulders. He doesn’t seem happy to see Ned and something about it gives Mickey twisted satisfaction. 

“Well if it isn’t the toughest fag beater this side of the Chicago river.” Ned spits the words with contempt but still places his bag on the couch, getting out the supplies he brought with him. 

Mickey laughs despite the way it expands his rib cage, giving Ned a very prompt middle finger. “Fuck off.”

If this was any other place, Mickey would have clocked him right then and there but Ian steps in, puts a human blockade between the two of them. 

“I’ll pay you back. For coming out here.”

Ian’s hand is on Ned’s shoulder in a silent agreement and Mickey senses already what he means by that. He opens his mouth to protest, already feeling his anger bubbling up but Ian moves to sit down beside him and Mickey shuts up. 

“I’m sure you will, Ian,” Ned says as his eyes go back and forth, narrowing in on Ian’s position. The side he’s chosen. He clears his throat and pulls out a case full of tools. “Let’s deal with the damage first.” 

— 

If Mickey could choose any moment to bury himself into the ground, it would certainly be now. There is something to be said about three being a crowd and he feels it in the way Ned exchanges glances with Ian but uses a rough hand on Mickey’s gash. 

It’s far from a professional exchange and Mickey is relieved when Ned finally pulls back after an hour of misery, namely in having to look at the old timer that closely. Ned starts to pack his shit and Ian gets up to help him, still creating that human shield. 

“And he’ll heal okay?” Ian asks, heading in the way of the front door. 

Ned peers back at Mickey and laughs in that condescending way that he remembers so vividly from the trip. “Can't fix the face but it’ll do.”

Mickey leers up then, his hand already curling into a fist. “Bite me, grandpa.”

“Mickey.” Ian holds a hand out to keep Mickey back, both of them knowing he’s in no condition to start a fight. 

“Thanks again, Ned. I’ll pay you back next week.” 

Ned walks with Ian to the front door and he reaches out to touch Ian’s arm, only to be met with distance. It’s a far cry from their interactions the week prior and Mickey can’t resist the urge to be a little smug. 

“Shame, Ian, but I understand,” Ned says quietly, reaching for the doorknob and showing himself out without another word. 

Good fucking riddance. 

Ian closes the door the rest of the way behind him and the tension in his shoulders drops off as he makes his way back to Mickey. “I have to head home for a few hours but I can come back. Help you with dinner or something.”

“I’m good,” Mickey tells him without much of a thought, his default whenever anyone offers him anything. 

Ian comes around to the side of the couch, picking up his shoes that he discarded over the last hour. “Mickey, you can barely walk,” he states as he tugs the sneakers over each foot. 

“I said I got it.”

A curt nod and Ian straightens up, his lips turned down slightly. He’s annoyed, Mickey can see it. Can sense it. “Sure you do.” He turns away from him, heading over to the front door and he only looks back when he has it open again. “You know you’re not getting rid of me that easily, right?” 

Yeah. Mickey knows that very well. 

— 

The thing about Sandy is she never learned how to leave well enough alone. Just like her mom, she was nosey as fuck, tough as nails with a soft underbelly. She’d deny it but the woman never knew when to quit. It was exactly with this in mind that when Mickey’s phone rings, he isn’t surprised to find Sandy on the other line barking at him. 

“You didn’t call me.” 

Mickey flops back against his bed, the time nearing four PM and he groans, directly in the mouthpiece for her to hear. “Didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“You weren’t at work when I showed up. Ian said you had an emergency.”

 _Idiot_. 

“Had to take care of some parole shit. Not a big deal.”

In the background, Mickey can hear shuffling, the breaking of glass, and the familiar grunt of his father. It takes Sandy a minute and a round of swearing before she's back on the phone, her voice significantly lower. 

“Mick, it is a big deal. I’m worried.” And he can hear it in her tone. Hear it in how her confidence has lowered. 

“You don’t have to worry about me, alright? I’m a big boy now, thanks.”

Sandy launches in then, her voice boring into his eardrum. “Are you kidding me? We’re family. Who else are we supposed to worry about? If you would just—” 

He hates it. Hates that he can’t do it all right. 

“You’re not my fucking mom!” Mickey snaps without thinking and the other line goes silent. Sandy’s breathing is the only thing that comes through and he expects her to yell at him, scream her head off, and then come to punch him in the neck but she does none of those things. 

“Fuck you, Mickey.” 

And the line goes dead, the dial tone echoing back into his ear. Mickey swallows back the bile that’s built up in his throat and swears under his breath before he hangs up the phone with an aggressive slam. The only problem that came with shielding Sandy was that Mickey never did it gracefully, never had the right touch. 

He thinks about calling her back but he doesn’t. He thinks about the beer in his fridge, he thinks about sharing a pint with Lip at the bar. He aches for the normalcy he had for the last month but knows it’s too late to get it back. Whatever he had that was good will be gone soon enough. 

Pushing off the bed, Mickey takes a second to get his bearings but then he’s padding his way to the kitchen in an effort to search for that lone beer. It’s tucked away behind some old bread, barely cold but it’ll have to do. He balances the bottle on the table and tries to get the top off with one hand, his hands refusing to cooperate. At the same time, another round of knocking startles him, the beer falling over onto the counter. 

“Jesus Christ.” Not even a whole day and the whole city is showing up at his doorstep. 

Mickey stands the beer up straight and huffs before going to answer the damn door. Best bet is one of those Jesus freaks or worst case, it’s one of his brothers coming to drag him off to work already. Either way, whoever it is isn’t going to make this day any better. 

He undoes the chain and pulls the door open enough to peer through, only for his blood to run molten hot under his skin again. 

“Hey.” Ian balances back and forth on the balls of his feet, his hands buried in his pockets. He looks uncertain but hopeful, his teeth back to worrying at his bottom lip. 

“What are you doing here?” It’s the first thing he thinks to ask, knowing very well that Ian told him he’d be back. 

“Came to check on you like I told you I was going to do.” Ian waits there expectantly, eyeing the door but when Mickey doesn’t move, he gives an over exaggerated sigh. “I’ve got free grass, come on.”

Mickey rolls his eyes but he moves away, taking slow strides out of the way. “Don’t even think about touching me. I got it,” he warns him preemptively. 

He leaves the door open and heads to the living room, the TV playing some stupid comedy show that he wasn’t paying attention to. Ian gets ahead of him and finds a spot on the couch, the cushions squeaking under his body weight. 

He pulls out a blunt from his pocket, using a lighter on the table to burn the end of it before bringing it up to his lips. Mickey watches but he tells himself not to look at Ian’s mouth, to think about anything other than how soft it looks. 

“Well, sit down,” Ian says, patting the spot next to him. 

Mickey blanks but he does as he’s told, taking his usual spot. The section of the couch has already conformed to his weight, sinking in enough to form to Mickey exactly. His leg brushes up against Ian’s but he doesn’t scoot away. He just lets it happen. 

The radio on the side table gets turned on with a flick of Ian’s wrist and the last station Mickey listened to starts playing. 

_You’d be like heaven to touch. I want to hold you so much_.

Ian hums at the tune and he leans back, blowing smoke into the air before handing the blunt over to Mickey, their fingers briefly intertwining. 

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Ian asks him, rolling his head to the side so he catches Mickey right when he’s inhaling. 

Mickey takes a long drag, enough to fill his chest cavity and he can feel the wetness of Ian’s mouth on the paper as he blows out — the haze a welcome addition. They make eye contact through the fog and Mickey shrugs, resting his head merely inches from Ian’s. 

“I don’t really talk to anyone.”

“I don’t want to be just anyone to you.”

 _You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you_. 

Mickey lets Ian’s words sink in and they’re close, so close that their breath is mingling, becoming connected — drawn to each other. Ian’s eyes are half lidded and lost, already succumbing to the relaxation of the drug but they still bore into Mickey’s blue ones, reading him from the inside out. 

And maybe it’s the drugs or the punches to his head. Maybe it’s the confusion that’s been plaguing him for weeks but fuck, Ian might just be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

Mickey takes another hit and at the same moment, Ian scoots in closer slightly to the point that their arms brush. It’s so close. Too close. 

As he exhales, Mickey slowly moves back and puts space between the two of them — not looking at Ian when he hands the roach over to him. Ian chuckles when he does it and Mickey doesn’t get what’s so funny. Nothing about this is funny. 

“Do you care if I crash here tonight?” Ian asks when the silence starts to sneak back in, his eyes now focusing on his lap more than Mickey. 

“What for?” he counters with clear curiosity, his brows stitching together. 

“I’m going to take care of you. Consider it payback.”

Take care of him. Mickey stares as if he heard him incorrectly, needing a second to let his brain catch up. He can’t tell if it’s good or bad when his heart does hard kick flips that knock the wind out of him. 

Mickey shakes his head, snatching the blunt back before Ian even has a chance to hit it. “You really know how to get under someone’s fucking skin, don’t you?”

“Maybe just yours.” Ian laughs, fiddling with the dials to play something with a little bit more life to it. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s an ‘I guess so.’”

The rest of the night goes by without another close encounter with Ian making some kind of stupid poor man’s spaghetti that Mickey can barely shovel into his mouth. They bicker as usual, pass drugs and drinks between the two of them while Ian sings along to every random song that comes up on the radio. He’s done similar shit with Lip but with Ian, it’s different. It’s almost like Mickey isn’t alone. 

But that’s not real. Normalcy isn’t real. It’s temporary. Even then though, Mickey pretends that maybe he can have one more moment of normalcy. Just one more second of being okay. 

When it nears midnight, Ian helps Mickey to his room despite a hefty round of complaining and it’s strange — welcoming someone else into his space. Ian takes it in stride though, not rattled by whatever is happening as he steals a blanket off of Mickey’s chair. 

“Are you gonna be good to work in the morning? I asked Fiona to cover for you with your parole officer so you don’t have to worry about it.”

“You didn’t have to do that, man,” Mickey exhales weakly, running a hand through his hair as best he can. 

“I know. I wanted to.”

There’s a long lull in the conversation before Mickey clears his throat, pulling his sheets over his lap as he slides into bed. “Yeah, I’ll be good. As long as you don’t say shit about my face.”

“Still looks pretty good to me.” Ian’s smile is warm as he leans against the doorframe, his shadow casting into Mickey’s bed. He shifts from foot to foot until there’s nothing left to be said. “Night, Mick.”

Mickey follows him with his eyes as Ian leaves, disappearing behind the wall. He hears the small squeak of the couch, the signal that Ian is settling in and Mickey pauses. It’s not like the last time Ian was here. It’s different. Mickey let him in. Mickey wants him to stay. 

His voice is small but through the quiet house it still rings, an invisible olive branch that extends from Mickey to Ian. 

“Night, Ian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lets all do a pray circle and hope that I can get chapter 14 out at a decent time. I'm going to start working on it asap so bear with me, we're almost to the halfway point so stay tuned.
> 
> come talk to me at:  
> [@s11mikhailo](https://twitter.com/s11mikhailo) \- twitter // [xgoldendays](https://xgoldendays.tumblr.com) \- tumblr //  
> [s11mikhailo](https://curiouscat.qa/s11mikhailo) \- curiouscat


	14. Your Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me preface this chapter by saying that I had the most fun writing it and I think this is one of the most important chapters thus far. it was one of those chapters that made me cry when I was writing it, if that's any indication of what's to come. I truly hope you all enjoy reading this one and please let me know what you think!
> 
> and of course extra love to two of my faves [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse) and [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor) \- they really lifted my spirits with their comments on this one.

In the time it takes for his wounds to heal, for his cuts to close up, and his bruises to fade - Mickey finds that something new has burrowed under his skin. It slithers into his bloodstream, a foreign entity that’s more potent than anything Mickey ever experienced before. More disorienting than fear or panic or regret.

No, it’s the most dangerous thing. A person. 

Mickey didn’t notice it at first — the shift. Ian staying at his house was meant to be a one time thing, two times max but after he leaves the next morning after taking care of Mickey’s injuries, he just keeps coming back. Just for beers at first, casually showing up on Mickey’s doorstep with a six pack and that damn hopeful expression but soon Mickey was seeing more of Ian than he saw of anyone else — even his own cousin. At work, at home, at the Gallagher house, at the Alibi. Ian was the virus seeping into his every pore and Mickey knew how to get rid of him, he just didn’t do it.

Because somewhere down the line, Ian went from being a stranger to being a _friend_ and Mickey was okay with it. 

He liked it. 

It was a flicker of something, a tiny light at the end of the tunnel that gave him a glimpse into the life he could have. The life he wanted to pretend he still had a chance of reaching. Where Ian was the light, Terry was the darkness. The kind that shrouded Mickey in constant nightmares, that made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Terry’s threats hadn’t fallen on deaf ears and his bruises weren’t forgotten. Mickey knew that falling back in line with his family was the wrong idea, a one way ticket back to prison but what else was he supposed to do? Take beatings every day, finally let his dad get his hand around his neck and steal his life from him? No, playing along was safer. Playing along was better than dying. 

And Mickey had things to live for now. He had reasons to keep going. 

So when his brothers showed up on his doorstep a few days after his beating to pick him up for his first drug run as a free man, Mickey didn’t stop them. He played along with their jokes, smoked cheap cigarettes outside of Colin’s old Ford as the sun came up and put a half pound of coke in his pocket before the day was over. He didn’t flinch when Terry called him a fag or punched him in his still fresh wounds until they were sore all over again. He bit back with a joking jab, pretended none of it mattered to him because he was a Milkovich and Milkoviches didn’t hold grudges against family.

It wasn’t a choice. Mickey didn’t have choices, never had options, never got to decide which road his life would take. It was do or die. Obligation versus freedom. Self-preservation versus sacrifice. 

On the last Wednesday of the month, it’s business as usual. Mickey goes through his usual routine of cleaning up and getting himself ready for work, but now with the added bonus of checking on his bruises. Most of them are completely cleared up, just faded darkened patches of skin but nothing that draws too much attention. The gash on his cheek is still an angry slash over his otherwise healed face and he knows it’s just another scar to add to the list. People don’t question things like that in the Southside. 

It’s six-thirty AM when Mickey leaves his place and five minutes to seven when he walks through the doors of Patsy’s. Fiona stands in her usual spot by the coffee maker, pouring out the steaming hot liquid for one of their earliest customers - an elderly man who hides his face behind an obnoxiously tall newspaper littered with political headlines. 

“Morning,” Fiona greets Mickey once he passes into her line of sight and she smiles as she sets the coffee maker back on its stand, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’re early.”

“Some people would say that’s a good thing,” he quips back, peering at her from behind the division in the wall. 

A soft laugh leaves her lips and she shakes her head, making her way to the till. “Just wasn’t expecting it.” 

“Wouldn’t get used to it.”

Mickey jokes and it’s normal. Simple. Another part of his routine that he’s fallen into. He doesn’t know the rest of the Gallaghers as well as Ian or Lip but they don’t shun, don’t turn him away from their home. And Fiona — she really had done him a favor by covering for him when she didn’t have to. Mickey tried to think of ways to pay her back but she had slapped him on the shoulder, told him it was nothing. 

It’s strange to Mickey to have an ounce of trust in someone, let alone more than one person. 

He heads to the back room where a few of the other guys are still putting their stuff away into their lockers. They all greet Mickey, casual and jovial and he’s silently thankful for them. Thankful they never asked questions. As it gets closer to opening, Mickey watches the men file out of the room, leaving him space to get to his locker at the very end of the row. 

It takes him one good tug to get it open and he stuffs in a bag, some old jeans and a cut off shirt he hasn’t worn in years. Something he doesn’t care about ruining because it’s only twelve hours before he goes to his other job, before his brothers take him back down to the pits of hell. 

“Morning.”

From just behind Mickey’s left shoulder, Ian comes swooping in right as the clock hits 7AM and Fiona taps her foot from where she’s been standing, arms crossed over her petite frame. 

“Cutting it close,” she tells him with a sly tone, her lips pursed so she doesn’t smile and detract from her position as his boss. Ian shrugs, flashing his sister a cheeky grin as he slides up next to Mickey. “But I’m not late, right?”

“You got here after Mickey. I think that qualifies as late.” 

Mickey chuckles, knowing by now that Fiona means well. She always does. He shakes his head and flips her the finger, garnering a soft chuckle from the woman. 

“Just hurry up.”

“It’s Wednesday. Since when do we get a rush on Wednesday?” Ian counters with a swift case of the puppy dog eyes that are seemingly Fiona’s weakness. 

“Still your boss and I said hurry up!” Fiona calls out as she leaves and Ian shakes his head, fiddling with the loose lock on his locker. 

“I could be seventy and she’d still treat me like a kid.”

Mickey closes his locker and reaches into the pile to grab an apron, wrapping it around himself as Ian stores his bag. “Older siblings do that, man. It’s a fucking curse.”

“I guess, but it gets old.”

Mickey clears his throat, briefly thinking about how little involvement his siblings had in his life. How it was every man for himself. “Count your blessings.” Ian appears unfazed, humming lightly under his breath while he digs around for something out of sight. “You still coming over tonight? Lip has to hang back at the shop but — empty house. First shot at the booze.” 

The air grows thick for Mickey, an invisible noose around his esophagus. He could tell Ian the truth, hope that he’d keep his mouth shut. Not meddle like Sandy but that was a gamble, a risk. Mickey opens his mouth and instinct takes over. “Can’t. Got shit to do.” 

Ian’s locker closes with a small click and his brows stitch together, a hint of confusion dropped into his disappointment. “Since when?”

“Since now.”

Since Terry’s threat did more than bruise him — it beat him into submission. 

“You have other friends you haven’t told me about?” Ian asks as he mimics Mickey’s prior actions and slides an apron around himself. 

And there’s that word. _Friends_. 

Mickey scoffs, walking out of the room first and into the bustle of the kitchen with Ian nipping at his heels. “Yeah, gotten real close to Larry. Gonna have dinner with his family and everything.”

And maybe that’s the strangest part of all. The last weeks didn’t only manifest Ian’s presence but they awoke something in Mickey that was never present before. The want to talk to someone. To hear their voice and to let them hear his in return. Of course, Mickey didn’t tell him everything but Ian knew about prison, parole, Larry. He knew Mickey was gone for a long time. Mickey just never told him why. 

“You’re an asshole,” Ian spits but there’s no malice behind it, only a slick smile and a brief brushing of their shoulders as Ian passes by him. 

Grabbing a spatula nearby, Mickey gives Ian a half smirk and takes his place in front of the fryer. “Takes one to know one.”

— 

All things considered, the day is like any other day. 

The customers are assholes, Ian almost sets a whole round of fries on fire and Fiona and Sean bicker through the thin walls of the office but it’s nothing new. Nothing they haven’t heard before. Sandy doesn’t run through the door on Mickey’s break (hasn’t for weeks now) but her presence is replaced by Ian, his knobby knees bumping against Mickey’s as they cram into a booth for an hour. 

Instead of the usual silence that Mickey craves during his one hour of solitude during work, he’s met with Ian starting a conversation about an article in Mickey’s magazine — a page long promotion for Queen’s new album. In between bites of his sandwich, Ian points at the album cover printed scratchily on the paper.

“A Night at the Opera. It’s supposed to be pretty good,” Ian muses, his eyes lighting up slightly. 

“Never listened to them.”

The man gapes at Mickey’s admission and it reminds him that there’s still so many things he doesn’t know about the outside world. “Are you serious? Not even since you’ve been out?”

It still makes Mickey blink when Ian so casually refers to his sentence, refers to prison as if it’s nothing. He knows it’s not that easy to grasp for most people but if Ian is taken back by it, he’s never let it show. He’s never asked Mickey to tell him about it. 

“I got other shit to do,” Mickey says simply, flipping the page which garners him an indignant look from Ian. 

“Make time. They’re gonna be legends, Mick.”

“What makes you the expert?”

“I have good taste.”

Mickey laughs out loud at that, pushing at Ian’s leg with the tip of his boot. “Says the guy who wears the same shitty corduroys all the time.” 

“Says the guy with the hole in this boot,” Ian ribs back at him, glancing under the table at Mickey’s shoes for good measure. 

Like children in a schoolyard with their constant fucking bickering. 

Ian’s joking gets him a good solid middle finger as Mickey picks up his empty tray and gets up from the table. “Says the guy who is leaving now.”

It doesn’t take long for Ian to follow after him because he always does. It’s a horrible constant to have in his life. 

The rest of their shift is spent with the same mindless bickering and joking that it goes by in an instant, only broken by Fiona popping her head into the back of the house. The rush slows down enough that she lets Mickey off a whole ten minutes early, enough time to get a quick smoke in before his brothers show up. Meanwhile Ian is stuck at the fryer, flipping burgers for a group of bikers that haven’t left for the past hour. 

Mickey discards his apron and gathers his stuff, barely out of the door before he’s lighting up his cigarette, thrilled to have his fix just the tiniest bit earlier. He leans against the side of the wall and blows smoke rings up in the air, counting down the minutes in his head until Colin will pull up in his shitty Ford Torino. 

It’s 2PM on the dot when Mickey hears the door ring, signaling the exit of someone and his suspicions are proved correct when his face is soon blocked in shadow. “You’re still here,” Ian says as he slides up next to Mickey.

“Yeah, I got a ride.” 

Ian pauses, looking out toward the street just as a Ford Torino with cracked paint and a busted back fender rolls into view. “With who?”

Mickey can see Colin from the front seat, his sunglasses blocking his eyes but it’s clear that he’s looking right at them. His brother stops the car on the opposite side of the street, honking once to signal him. “Gotta go, see you tomorrow.”

It’s a quick and sharp goodbye but the less Colin knows, the better. The less any of his family knows about Patsy’s, the better. 

Ian stands there dumbfounded but he doesn’t comment on it, managing only a brief wave from his spot on the wall. “See ya, Mick.”

Crossing the street among a few loud honks from oncoming cars, Mickey slides into the backseat of the Ford and dumps his bag on the floor, his cigarette now dangling from his lips. He and Colin make eye contact through the rear view mirror and it’s a weak version of the stares his dad always used to give him. 

“Who was that?” Colin asks and Mickey knows very well that there’s no kind hearted nature behind the question. 

Milkoviches are taught to be suspicious of everyone and everything. 

“Nobody.”

\--

On the outskirts of Canaryville are the south shore docks. A dilapidated and forgotten stretch of land flanked by two abandoned warehouses at the point of demolition and a handful of boats in its harbor. At best, the average hobo pitches a tent in a worn patch of grease and at worst, the cops take a roll around every few months when the average crime rate isn’t doing it for them. 

Most guys take their chances though, using the shade of the warehouses to hide all sorts of illegal activity. Anywhere from drugs to shipments of knock offs products from China. Anything that makes a quick buck. Limitations don’t exist when no one’s watching. 

This is the life Mickey knows. This the life he understands. 

Colin guides the car off the street and straight into the dirt, the particles billowing up against the car in a cloud of sand that whips across Mickey’s face. He squints his eyes against the onslaught, the carriage of the car rising and falling with every bump. From what Mickey can see, the area between the two warehouses is practically abandoned minus a much older Ford Torino parked sideways with a man leaning against the hood. 

They stop a good twenty feet away, the tires skidding as the dust clears but when Colin cuts the engine - none of them make a move to get out. Terry stares at them through the grimy windshield, his face scrunched up against the peak sunlight. No matter the time, the man casts an intimidating air around and it causes all of them to pause. 

“Don’t be pussies,” Colin mutters as he gets out first, closing the door behind him with a slam. 

The rest of them groan almost in unison but follow suit, getting out one by one but not traveling farther than the door they came out of. 

“You’re late.” Terry starts on them immediately, pushing off the car and crossing his arms over his broad chest. 

His father scowls at the presence of his sons and nephews and it's almost unbearable to look at. He’s the only man Mickey knows that has never been happy to see anyone, let alone bare his teeth in any way other than menacing. His tattooed arms are exposed in another sleeveless shirt and it reminds Mickey that he’s still in his Patsy’s uniform — a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Jamie slaps the hood with one hand, shielding his eyes with the other. “Not our fault Colin can’t drive for shit.”

“Plus, Mick was taking too damn long. Talking to some guy,” Joey cuts in sharply, his grin skewed to the left.

“Yeah, couldn’t tear him away from his faggot boyfriend.”

Mickey’s blood runs cold at the insinuation, heat flaring up on the back of his neck so hard that it causes sweat to roll down his temple and he comes up behind Jamie, smacking him roughly on the back of the head. They do this shit all the time, make fucking gay jokes casually — call each other pansies and pussies, fags and fairies. The kind of people they would be ashamed to be and their father would kill them for. 

The person Mickey can’t be.

“Fuck you, Jamie,” he spits after his cousin yelps, hopelessly swatting back at him like bickering children. 

Terry interjects then, his eyes gray and steely. “All of you shut your goddamn mouths. We got work to do.”

They all shut up within a second and Mickey grounds the heel of his shoe into Jamie’s toe, barely visible from underneath the car bed. 

“On it, Pops,” Colin says obediently, giving the rest of them the sign of ‘shut up or else’.

The four men proceed to help Terry load bags from one Ford to the other, a few cardboard boxes filled to the brim with rattling bottles of pills and baggies with substances that Mickey only vaguely remembers. It’s a shoddy operation for a shoddy neighborhood and it harkens back to hours in the desert where he and Iggy joked about hitting it rich — using their drug money to buy some mansion in the Northside. 

Back when Mickey was just a kid, just hoping to make his dad proud and put food in his belly. Hopeful for something he would never achieve. Foolish and brave. But Mickey lost that kid somewhere in between the sand dunes, buried him under prison mattresses, hid him in the deep recesses of his mind, and never got him back. 

How sad for him. 

Once all the stuff is piled into the car, Terry comes up to the four of them as he pulls out a wad of cash, licking his dirt-crusted fingers before tugging at the bills. “Fifty bucks for the week. I hear any bitching and I’m keeping the rest of your share.”

“Who made you keeper of the cash, Uncle Terry? Thought that Russian bunny was gonna pay us.”

Terry comes up to Joey with a scowl and his cousin’s idiot mouth goes slack, his arms already going up in defense. He attempts to gurgle out an apology but Terry launches a fist into his gut, his knuckles pressing into Joey’s ribcage. 

“Makes your share twenty. You got something else to say, kid?” he spits as dirt kicks up around them, a wind howling past Mickey’s ears. “Anyone?” Terry continues. 

The rest of the guys stay quiet and it’s like they’re all teenagers again, flinching away from Terry’s wrath and begging that it be turned toward someone else, anyone other than themselves. Joey bends forward from the blow, hacking into the dirt as Terry slides the thirty dollars into his loose hanging shirt pocket.

“I’m doing you shits a favor. Learn to be grateful.” Terry walks down the line, his boots scratching through the rubble until he stops at Mickey — only a few inches taller than his son. “Wouldn’t want to end up like this one. Fucking soft.” Terry’s grin and aging face pulls in close but only so he can shove Mickey back a few steps, a sour smell to his breath as he goes on his tirade. “Now get out of here. Want it across the border by sundown.”

Colin clears his throat, waiting for the right moment before jingling his keys in the air and turning back toward the car. Terry stands there menacingly, his steely gaze boring into them until Mickey moves on after Colin, sliding into the backseat with the stash. 

It’s been this way for the last two weeks. The same drill over and over but their destination is always different. Usually nearby but they’ve been as far as Milwaukee in one night, leaving Mickey with little to no time to sleep before work. In a way, it’s good that Sandy hasn’t been speaking to him. He doesn’t have to think of excuses. 

“You think Joey is down for the count?” Colin muses as he taps his calloused fingers along the worn leather of his steering wheel - the radio playing a sullen melody through the static. 

At the same time, Jamie pulls the door handle with a screech and he slides into place next to Colin. “Nah, just needs a second.” He has a cigarette in hand, already lighting the cheap brown paper. 

“Idiot always opens his mouth.”

“Better him than us, right?” Jamie snorts, smacking Colin with a flat palm across the chest. 

“Watch it.”

The pair share a couple of slaps between the two of them, their raucous laughter hitting Mickey right between the temples like a heartbeat in his skull. Both of the men have a year or more on Mickey but they still have the same boyish qualities of when they were just teenagers, shooting off guns in back alleys. 

But Mickey doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t think it’s funny anymore. 

While the two go back and forth, Mickey can see Joey still spitting into the gravel while Terry’s car tears off in the other direction. He waits until the car is out of sight before wiping his eyes, his hand drawing circles over his stomach.

“Gonna be another scorcher, boys. Crack a window.”

The four of them tear off toward Detroit until the dawn threatens to break, padding off drugs to a random carrier behind a liquor store. They give Colin a wad of cash, a couple of boxes of premium cigarettes and that’s it — their hands are clean for another day. It’s the good old days. The Milkovich men on the hunt for their next thrill, the next chapter in their saga but to Mickey, it feels like he’s been hurdled into the past with no way of stopping. 

The line in the sand that he crossed back at the Gallagher’s inches closer, back into his view and Mickey knows that if he isn’t careful, he’ll cross back over. He’ll cross back over and lose another part of himself. Just like he lost that kid back in the desert. Like he lost a version of himself of prison and maybe, just maybe Mickey is tired of losing. 

\--

When daylight cracks through Mickey’s window the following morning, the last thing he wants to do is get up and head downtown. His eyelids open and see the light of day only three hours after falling asleep causing him to let out a heavy groan and he flings his pillow at the wall with a soft thud. Thursdays are for Larry, and after the last week of damage, it’s not a meeting he can afford to miss.

Sure, Ian told him it was fine. Sure, Larry and the cops didn’t come busting down his door but that didn’t mean it was okay. It could never be that simple. 

Either way, Mickey gets himself ready in his usual fashion but instead of his Patsy’s uniform, he tugs a dark grey shirt over his head - shoves his keys into his front pocket before heading down to the L. It has to be the longest train ride of his life, every building that passes making his blood curdle in his veins. The threat of prison always looms over his head — the hypothetical blunt blade of the guillotine — but when Mickey fucks up? That’s when it slides down closer, takes an inch off the top of the bubble of protection he’s attempting to create. Maybe Larry wouldn’t call the cops on him — the man too nice and too considerate — but what if he did? What if he already had? 

Mickey should consider himself fortunate to have a parole officer that isn’t typical, not the same hard hitting assholes his brothers got stuck with. He has one that’s only ever wanted to know if Mickey is alive and doing his job. If he’s happy. If he’s eating. Normal POs would run Mickey through his paces, threaten him, interrogate him, but when Mickey sits down in front of Larry at exactly 10AM — the first thing out of the man’s mouth is ‘are you feeling okay, Mickey?’ 

It throws him for a loop and he wonders when Larry will start the round of questions about his bruises, when he’ll ask him what happened or when the fuzz will slide in and cuff him but he doesn’t ask and no one else comes. Mickey can’t tell if that’s Fiona’s doing, Ian’s, a mix of the two or simply Larry’s good will, but he keeps his mouth shut even when the man whips out the damn sock puppet for the third time in a single month. 

Mickey indulges the man this time, gives him little updates about his life. Diner’s good, house isn’t crumbling to pieces, he’s eating, he’s alive — all good things to have when you’re a felon. Decency. But as Larry scribbles in his little notepad, Mickey thinks about all the wrong he’s done, all the wrong he’s doing and he silently apologizes to the man in front of him. Wills him to never send him back to that place because prison was worse than death now that he had a taste of freedom. 

Larry goes through six questions with the aid of his puppet and Mickey is thankful when their hour comes to a close. There’s some more scrubbing and a stamp or two before Larry gives Mickey the clear, another week in the books. 

Mickey shakes the man’s hand and heads toward the office door but he’s stopped by Larry’s sing song voice chirping up. “Tell that darling cousin of yours I said hello. Nice girl.”

He blanks, a dryness creeping into his throat. “Yeah, yeah I’ll do that.”

\-- 

Sandy, despite all her best qualities, is still a Milkovich and Milkoviches know how to stay angry. 

While the pair hadn’t spoken regularly while Mickey was in prison, they had been in constant communication since he’d been out. Everyday or every other day — a call, a note, a quick bite of food. Sandy was always there at a moment’s notice to check in on Mickey. It was just what they did, what they always did — attached at the hip, two peas in a pod. It wasn’t just Sandy and Mickey as much as it was SandyandMickey and arguments dissipated in minutes, hours, at most a day. Never longer than that and definitely not as long as two whole weeks. 

Mickey didn’t dare ask his brothers for any info on her, not wanting to draw attention to how much she was helping him and instead he let it slide, thought that maybe Sandy would come around and give in to her nosey ways before Mickey had to think about apologizing. It wouldn’t be the first time Mickey was wrong. 

It took the nudge from Larry for Mickey to take the L on a different route and instead of heading toward his house, he takes it four stops to the west. It’s a nice part of town, nothing too fancy as it borders the shitty parts of the Southside but the people there don’t put bars on their windows, don’t break glass at midnight or shoot bullets for fun. It’s average, it’s regular, and it’s where his younger cousin just so happens to work. 

Now Mickey promised himself he would never stoop so low as to set foot in a fucking roller rink of all places but when finding Sandy was limited to two spots — he took the lesser of the two evils. The building is only a five minute walk from the train and the sounds of disco filter in before he can plug his ears against the offensive noise. 

It’s not hard to pick the place out from a distance with its purple stucco walls and bright neon sign withering away in front of it. The actual name of the place is barely legible but the word ‘skate’ is blaring, angry in hot pink. It’s one of the only roller rinks in the neighboring community that hasn’t been shut down for asbestos or raided by police in the last week, so for a Thursday afternoon, the place is more packed than he imagined. 

Mickey straightens out his shirt as he approaches from the left side, sighing when a couple of girls brush past him with skates hanging over their shoulders. If Mickey was out of place downtown, then here amongst the glitter and flash of disco, he was a regular alien. 

He waits for the crowd to clear before sliding inside and he’s immediately blinded by multicolored lights going off in all directions, matched in time with the chipper melody of ABBA. There are kids, dozens of them, skating in circles around the rink — couples holding hands as they bop and jive to the tune. 

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey says to himself, standing off in a corner as he watches the scene with an awkward tension in his shoulders.

“Are you lost, sir?” A tap comes on his right shoulder and standing beside him out of nowhere is a small blonde girl in an orange bodysuit with shimmering white skates on her feet. She has a mouthful of gum that comes out to pop in his face, much like the receptionist back at Larry’s office. “Policy says you have to have skates on or get out.”

A small name tag on her chest reads ‘Candice’ and Mickey can’t help but stare at her, his entire being caught off guard by his surroundings. 

“I’m looking for Sandy.”

“You her boyfriend or something?”

Mickey grimaces at the question, a sneer curling his mouth. “Cousin.”

The girl looks him over and the disdain is obvious from the second her eyes get back to his face. “Makes sense.”

Candice pads off on her skates without a word and Mickey follows her, holding back on his agitation for the time being. It’s bad enough that he’s there, he’s not adding ‘shit-talked by an annoying teen’ to the list. The girl skates all the way over to the counter where another teen is standing — a kid with multicolored glasses bigger than his face perched on his nose. 

“Sandy still here?” Candice asks the kid, her arms resting on the counter. 

A response comes quickly and the man points behind his shoulder. “Yeah, she’s on break. Backroom.”

“Cool.”

Candice leads off again to a room just behind the counter and when she angles her body to slide up to the door frame, Mickey catches a glimpse of a girl on her own inside. 

His cousin is directly in the middle of the room, clad in a pair of denim bell bottoms with another one of her graphic t-shirts cut just to the waistband. She’s swaying back and forth to her own rhythm, a hefty pair of black headphones perched on her head. If they weren’t fighting, Mickey might find the sight amusing. Something to mock her about later. 

Candice pops another bubble and rolls her eyes, scooting her way to just behind the dancing Sandy. “Sandy?” Nothing. “Sandy!” She screams high pitched into the air as she snatches Sandy’s headphones back with a well manicured finger. 

Sandy snaps to attention, all her movements stopping at once and her hand curls into a defensive fist, much like Mickey does when he’s caught off guard. “I’m on my break!”

“Someone here to see you.” The girl then points in Mickey’s direction and he stupidly waves from his spot just outside the door. 

He can see it in her eyes. She doesn’t want to see him and Mickey can’t blame her, he fucked this one up big time. 

Sandy’s eyes narrow and Mickey takes that as his cue to back off, finding a nearby table to sit at. The position still gives him a good view of the break room where the two women mutter back and forth to each other for a few minutes before Candice takes the headphones in her hand, carrying them off to the counter with a final pop of her gum.

Sandy, on the other hand, stands there for a moment just staring Mickey down as if to size him up. It doesn't faze him. In fact, he expects it. 

It’s another minute and Sandy starts walking toward him, the heavy flaps of bell bottoms nearly dragging along the carpeting. She looks different somehow as she gets closer - her face cleaned up and her hair pulled up behind her head. It was almost like she was someone else entirely, someone who belonged in places like this. 

Sandy takes the stool across from him just as the song switches and a round of skaters make their way to the concession table. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to talk to you,” Mickey tells her as he rests his elbows on the table, thankful the remnants of his bruises aren’t visible to the naked eye. 

“About?”

A sigh and Mickey is leaning in, his eyes reading somewhere between pleading and frustrated. “Give me a fucking break, Sandy.”

His cousin huffs and she leans back, her arms flexing with the frustration that’s likely coursing through her. She doesn’t speak but she does scrutinize him with a frigid glare, her eyes skirting around the planes of his face. It takes Mickey a second to remember the still present but healing gash on his face and he sighs. 

“It’s not a big deal.”

Something close to a growl escapes Sandy’s lips and she slams her hand down on the table. “Something’s going on and you won’t even tell me what it is. That’s bullshit, Mickey. We’re family.”

From under the lights, Mickey catches a film of wetness over Sandy’s eyes and the guilt he felt the last few weeks washes over him again. “I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have said that to you but you can’t — you just can’t run my life, Sandy. I gotta figure out how to do this on my own.” He runs a hand over his face, closing his eyes briefly as his nostrils flare. “I need you to trust me. After all the shit we’ve been through, I think you can give me that.”

Sandy processes his words or tries to, her pointer finger digging into the skin of her thumb as she fiddles. “I’m trying to help. I’m not a kid anymore, I can fucking help.”

“I know but you’re still a kid to me. Still my baby cousin.” Mickey meets her gaze and they’ve both softened. Both of them knowing that they have sharp tongues and a past that keeps them weary, unsettled. It’s an unspoken acknowledgement of their shared grief. “You can’t protect me. You know I’m not gonna let you.”

Sandy laughs but the sound is watery for a second until it’s gone — her strong front coming back into focus. “Worth a shot.” 

Mickey knows he doesn’t deserve her forgiveness. He doesn’t deserve her help, doesn’t deserve how much care she puts into everything she does but he can’t let her down. He’s still finding out the right way to repay her. 

“We’ve only got each other, right? Good for nothing Milkoviches until we die.” He raises a brow at her, a hint of amusement in the way his lips quirk up. 

There’s a pause and Sandy moves closer, punching Mickey once on the arm. “Forever and ever.”

“So we’re good?” he asks, needing the verbal confirmation. 

Sandy gazes up into the lights with a hum, her head moving side to side in thought. “I guess, but I’m still coming over to make you food. You look fucking sick,” she jokes with him and suddenly everything is okay again. 

“Kiss my ass,” Mickey snaps back easily, pushing away from the table as a new litter of kids clamor their way onto the skating area. 

“You wanna hang around? Maybe give good old disco the once around?”

“Yeah, I’d rather fucking choke.”

Sandy shakes her head as she peers back to the counter briefly where her coworkers are handing out skates by the truckload to skate starved brats. “You’ll come around.”

Pointing back behind his shoulder, Mickey feels the tension leave his shoulders though the awkwardness still lingers. “I’m gonna head out. Stop by Gallagher’s. See you there?”

“I get off at ten but maybe. I promised Debbie I’d help her with something.”

Debbie. This has to be the hundredth time he’s heard that name come out of his cousin’s mouth in the short time she’s known of the woman’s existence. 

“You and Debbie best friends now?”

“She’s nice. I like her,” Sandy says flippantly, rocking back and forth on her heels with an unreadable expression on her face. “I could say the same about you and Lip — or Ian.” She tacks the last part in under the radar but it’s enough to make Mickey falter. 

“He’s okay.”

Sandy comes around the side of the table, her hand coming out to squeeze his shoulder for just a second — a grounding gesture. “It’s okay to say you like him, Mick.” 

She leaves him with that, sticks her tongue out at him, and turns back to head toward the skate counter where Candice is leaned over, a couple of boys hanging on her every word. 

Mickey knows she doesn’t mean anything by it — it’s Sandy after all — but it stalls his tongue from saying anything else because it’s not like that and they’re not like that and it’s not like _that_ and yet his brain knocks the words around for much longer than he should. 

He watches Sandy go back to her headphones, bopping along like nothing ever happened and Mickey wishes for an ounce of her willpower. A fraction of the carefree kid that still lives in her. 

Mickey makes his way to the exit and exhales sharply to get rid of the pounding in his chest. Only six stops from there to the Gallagher’s. Six stops to some kind of peace of mind. 

— 

Lip has a cold one ready when Mickey arrives. 

The beer is perched by Mickey’s usual chair at the Gallagher kitchen table and he’s never been more grateful to see alcohol in his life. He gets to the chair in two wide steps, leaning back against the wood with relief hitting him in seconds. 

“Long day?” Lips asks him from where his head is buried in the fridge, not looking up to know that Mickey is ready and willing to listen. 

“Long month.”

“I hear that.” Lip chuckles, cracking his own beer open by the fridge and moving to take the seat just to the right of Mickey. “We got enough beers for the whole block so I think we’re straight.”

As Mickey turns to face Lip, he’s hit by the stench of alcohol coming off the other’s breath and the redness that creeps through the whites of his eyes. He’s hunched over, his body appearing frail as he curls protectively around his beer, exhaustion in the blue patches under his eyes. 

Mickey knows it’s not his place to say anything. He drinks just as much as Lip — washes away his guilt and anguish with the same chemicals — but the sight still tugs at Mickey’s heartstrings and plucks at his concern. They don’t talk about it, maybe they never will and that’s okay. It’ll have to be okay, for now. 

Because whether they discuss it or not, Lip understands. Lip knows what it feels like to be broken. 

“You good, man? Kind of looking like shit and that’s coming from me.” Mickey can’t help it, can’t bite his tongue but laces it in friendly terms so he doesn’t scare him off. 

“Yeah, just work. Kids screaming around here all the time.” Lip takes a long swig, his brow creasing in a way it often does when he’s talking. “I met this girl, Tami last week and she’s been, um—” He chuckles. “She's been kicking my ass.”

Mickey knows there’s more to the story, not just a tough woman giving Lip a kick in the ass but he clinks their bottles together, drinks in solidarity. “Sounds like my kind of woman.”

Lips eyes flicker to his bottle and he hums, taking a drink again after only a few seconds. That’s the thing about Lip — Mickey can’t read him. He can’t pinpoint a single fucking thing about him and that’s probably the best part. 

“You sticking around until Ian gets home?” Lip finally says, sliding his hand along the droplets that have collected on his beer. 

“Dunno. Got work in the morning.”

“Should only be a few hours. He’ll be happy to see you.”

Mickey doesn’t comment on that and changes the subject instead, opting to hear about cars for an hour instead of letting the conversation drift to Ian. He’s not talking about Ian with his own goddamn brother. 

It’s nearing 10PM when Ian gets home, his presence made known by the back door being knocked open by a filthy looking red sneaker. “Remind me to never work the front of the house,” he whines as he starts unlacing his shoes, leaving each one by the shade of the door. 

“Long day for you too?”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Ian snatches Lip’s beer out from under him without so much as flinching and quickly brings it to his lip for a mighty chug. 

Lip just laughs at his brother and drags himself out of his chair toward the kitchen to grab a fresh bottle from the fridge. “Good timing. Mickey was on his way out.”

Ian chokes slightly on the liquid, sputtering as he brings it down and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What? It’s barely ten.”

“Yeah and we got work in the morning.” Mickey staggers a bit as he gets to his feet, the several rounds of beers throwing him slightly off kilter. “Not gonna drag my happy ass on the L drunk.”

“Then I’ll go with you.” Ian doesn’t wait for Mickey to answer him and finds his sneakers again, sliding them back onto his feet. 

“For what?” 

“Bad neighborhood.”

Lip slides in then with a helpful edge toward Mickey’s side. “We live in a bad neighborhood.”

“Yeah but we’re related to the bad people in our bad neighborhood,” Ian quips, clearly thinking he’s the smartest asshole on the planet judging by his tone. 

“Right. I’m pretty sure Mickey can kick all of our asses.”

When it’s clear that Ian isn’t budging, Mickey just shrugs and heads out toward the front door, giving Lip a small nod of goodbye. “You’re the one who’s walking, man.”

Ian is smug as all hell as he follows after Mickey, heading down the front steps of the porch just as Sandy is heading up.

She stops at the foot of the stairs with a grin on her face, her hair now loose at her shoulders and she’s back to being herself. “Leaving, boys?”

“Some of us work in the morning,” Mickey bites and he nudges her out of the way as him and Ian squeeze through the gate. 

“Uptight,” Sandy mutters as she takes the steps two at a time, throwing words out over her shoulder. “Have fun!” she tells them before winking at the two of them, closing the door behind her. 

“See you, Sandy,” Ian says at the closed door, his brow furrowed. “What was she talking about?”

“No fucking idea.”

— 

It takes them only twenty minutes to get back to Mickey’s house and it’s not shocking to Mickey that Ian leads the way half the time, the two of them idly chatting about anything and nothing as they get to his front door. Mickey produces the key out of his left pocket but when his vision is slightly too blurred to get the key into the lock, Ian takes it out of his hands to do it for him. 

The living room is dark and Mickey blindly reaches for the chain at the end of one of his lamps, clicking it on and filing the area with a soft yellow light that could barely be called bright. Ian files in just behind him, locking the door before heading over to the couch and making himself at home as usual. Ian being there is his new usual. 

“You hungry?” Mickey asks as he steps up into the kitchen, unlacing his boots in a matter of seconds, though the action makes him stumble. 

“Chips?” Ian replies as he reaches over the arm of the couch, fiddling with the radio until he finds a station good enough for his apparently excellent taste.

It’s almost like a new little routine, the two of them like this, and Mickey is aware of the circumstances, knows how strange it would look to someone looking in. His friendship with Ian is no one’s business but his own. 

There’s that word again. Friendship. 

Mickey kicks his boots off to the side as he searches through some of the cabinets, managing to find a half eaten bag of Lay’s that would just have to do. “You know, one day you’re gonna stay at your own damn house.”

He tosses the bag at Ian, who catches it easily. “And leave you alone?”

Mickey goes over to the TV and turns the dials until the static clears long enough to show a movie on the tiny screen, something from the fifties that their parents might have been into. “You’re something else, Gallagher,” he tells him as he takes the spot on the couch next to him, letting the stress of the day wash away. 

“Part of my charm.” Ian smirks and he opens the bag, holding it open for Mickey to take a handful first. The two eat as the movie plays but like Ian does, he never stays silent for long. “You know what we forgot?”

For once, Mickey is actually immersed in a movie so he doesn’t look away when Ian speaks. His mouth is filled with chips as he answers, crumbs flying out of his mouth. “What’s that?”

“By this point, you owe me at least a hundred questions.”

 _What?_ It takes Mickey’s brain a second to catch up and then he realizes, dropping the handful of chips he has in his grip with an annoyed roll of his eyes. “Fuck off.”

Ian gapes at him, turning his body to face Mickey more directly. “I’m serious. We made a deal.”

A deal out in the middle of nowhere when Mickey thought he’d never see Ian again. A deal that didn’t extend to seeing Ian every single day or to Ian being in his life long enough to get to the questions Mickey didn’t want to answer. 

He lets out a grumble, wiping the remnants of the chips on the edge of his jeans. If anything was painfully obvious by now, it was that Ian wasn’t going to give up until he got his way. Fucking asshole. “You got one. Make it good.”

Ian goes quiet and he takes his time thinking, as if it’s the most important question he’ll ever ask in his life. When he asks, his voice is more thoughtful and the playfulness has subsided for now. “Who did you fight?”

It’s a dreaded question but not impossible. Mickey isn’t the only Southside kid who ever got hit by his parents and he wouldn’t be the last. His trauma doesn’t make him special, it just makes him sad. 

“Thought it might be that.” Mickey casts his eyes away from Ian and he starts, thinking of the right way to word it so that it doesn’t give away more than he wants to. “Dad’s kind of an asshole. Been beating us up since we were kids and his favorite punching bag came back to town. It’s not much of a story.” He says it so cut and dry that one might suspect that it doesn’t bother him but it does, it eats away at every nerve ending Mickey has. 

Ian doesn’t bat an eyelash at Mickey’s words, keeping his tone casual. “I get it. You heard about Frank.”

Everyone knew about Frank Gallagher — the second worst piece of shit in the Southside. If Terry was the devil then Frank was one of his little demons, a poor excuse for a human and even worse example of a father. He didn’t play batting practice on the faces of his children but he was no saint, far from it. 

“I’m dealing with it. Don’t need to talk about it or whatever it is you think you’ve got to do for me.” Mickey makes sure to clarify because with Larry already breathing down his neck, he doesn’t need more people asking him how he’s handling his life struggles. 

“Just wanted to know.” Ian wipes his hands along his corduroys, blinking the blurriness out of his eyes as the evening stretches into the late hours of the night. “But you’re okay?”

Mickey couldn’t recall the last time he had been okay in the general sense of the term. He never saw his life that way. As long as he was still breathing, that was good enough. It was enough of a reason to keep going. 

“Still alive, right?” Mickey says casually, a certain bite in the syllables that he doesn’t mean to be there. 

“How about you ask me something? Make it even.” 

Mickey takes a second then and he rattles off a hundred different questions to himself, all of them sounding stupid in one way or another. It’s opening a can of worms and Mickey doesn’t want to open anything he can’t close. Create a mess he can’t clean up. He grits his teeth and it’s a battle between curiosity and practicality. 

“You still seeing Ned?”

Curiosity wins again. 

“No, not after I paid him back for helping you.” Ian rests his back against the couch and there’s something resolute in the action. “I know you know, Mickey. I’m not embarrassed.”

Mickey glances at Ian and he’s right. He knew from the moment Ian went behind those trucks out in the desert. He knew when Ian went out with Ned. He knew at every turn but he never spoke up because it wasn’t his place to. But it boils his blood just the same, makes everything in his vision turn an ugly shade of red to hear Ian admit it. 

Not because of what he did but for all the men who didn’t deserve him.

“Why do you do it?” Mickey asks without thinking, instantly regretting his big mouth.

“Money, mostly. Attention for a while,” Ian answers and Mickey falls silent, wanting to give him the space. Mickey might be an asshole but he isn’t inconsiderate. He bites his tongue while Ian stares down at the floor, his eyes crinkling around the edges but not from their usual laughter. “Our mom died last year — around Christmas time and I don’t know, I guess I kind of lost it. I ran off, ended up out west with no money and I just… did it.”

The guilt from Sandy transposes itself onto Ian and Mickey feels uncomfortable in his skin. “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine. I think I want you to know.” Ian brings himself to look at Mickey and something flows between them, not the same as a spark but close as it charges between their bodies. Mickey can see it all over Ian’s face that this isn’t easy for him but he’s pushing through a wall — a wall similar to the one Mickey has, though perhaps not as strong. “Sometimes I do shit that I don’t understand. It’s not all the time, just sometimes. Fiona has me seeing some kind of head doctor like I’m crazy or something.” 

“So you’re sick?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.” Ian shrugs and he reaches out to put his palm flat on the couch, just a foot or less away from Mickey. “They think my mom was too but I’m not like her, you know?”

Mickey stops him there, making a point to look Ian in the eyes directly — uncomfortable or not. “You don’t have to explain this shit to me.”

“Yeah I do.” And the world stops again when Ian’s cool green eyes catch him off guard. “Because I don’t feel crazy around you.”

If Mickey had a list of words to describe Ian Gallagher, crazy wasn’t one of them. It never crossed his mind, not once. Not ever.

“Because you’re not. You’re just — Ian,” Mickey tells him, shows him with every flicker of his gaze. 

“I guess I was worried you’d run off.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

Mickey’s little quip makes Ian smile and nothing more is said for the time being. The movie on the TV continues to play but it’s drowned out by the music that continues to filter in from the radio.

_It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside. I’m not one of those who can easily hide. Don’t have much money but boy if I did, I’d buy a big house where we both could live._

Mickey is tempted to curse whoever directs the songs on the radio and makes them so pointed, seemingly a laugh at his expense. He rolls his head back against the couch and grimaces at absolutely nothing while Ian breathes beside him — the pair falling into a comfortable silence. 

Or at least a temporary silence. 

It’s not long before Mickey hears Ian’s distinct voice flood in to blend with Elton John’s, creating a smooth melody that brings his teeth down to gnaw at his lip. It’s different hearing Ian sing up close, where Mickey can feel his intakes of breath and sense the vibration of the notes as they circulate between them. 

Mickey tells himself not to look but he feels compelled to, remembering how calm and at peace Ian looked the last time he saw him sing. He turns his head to the side and Ian is in very much the same position as he was, looking up at the ceiling with his eyes closed — the music the only thing coursing through him. 

And he’s beautiful. He’s so fucking beautiful. 

_My gift is my song and this one’s for you._

The line ringsout and the couch squeaks silently as Ian moves his body, shifting his head so now he’s caught Mickey in the act of watching him. Nothing stops though and Ian doesn’t stop, doesn’t break the song to tease Mickey for staring. No, he keeps going; he sings every lyric softly for just the two of them. 

Mickey barely knows the lyrics but he catches most of them and each one stabs him, a slowly twisting knife of implications and of things left unsaid. Neither of them are thinking and Mickey’s head is heavy with alcohol that whisks away his inhibitions. 

He’ll blame it on the song, the atmosphere of the moon coming in through the curtains and the hint of air creeping through the cracks in his windows but when Ian leans in, Mickey moves with him. He doesn’t stop Ian when he sees his hand inch closer, slowly gliding his fingertips over the ink on Mickey’s knuckles. Ian traces each one carefully and it sends tingles up Mickey’s arms until he can’t see straight. 

_Anyway the thing is, what I really mean - yours are the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen._

Ian comes in closer still and Mickey’s head screams at him, barks commands in the voice of his father telling him to stop this. But he doesn’t. Mickey allows Ian to shorten the space between them until he feels the tip of Ian’s nose brush against his — those gentle hands making their way up his arm. 

It’s soft and careful and it feels right. It feels good. It feels like Mickey is breathing his own air for the first time. It’s every warm feeling he wanted when he was just a kid but amplified times a thousand. But there in the ether, is an equally powerful tug that drags along his spine until he can’t ignore it anymore. 

_Prison turn you into a fairy, kid? You’re a Milkovich. About time you start acting like one._

Mickey hears him loud and clear, feels the ghost of bruises and cuts and black eyes dear through him again. 

So he pulls away. 

“Fuck.” It’s a whisper of a swear as Mickey straightens out, running a shaky hand over his mouth and he’s losing control of himself — the panic in his brain making him go haywire. “It’s late.”

_Stupid. Fucking stupid._

Ian’s face is splotched red with embarrassment and the abruptness of Mickey’s words that he stutters when he speaks, standing up rigidly. “Yeah, right. Work.” He clears his throat and his tone is strained with every word. He knows what this means. “I’ll just take the L back, no big deal.” 

Mickey can’t speak and he can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or the loss of his senses that makes it hard to stand. All he knows is that he’s shaking, not enough that Ian can see but enough that he has to push his hands into his pockets to keep himself steady. 

“Mickey,” Ian calls out to him and when he gets nothing in return — Mickey’s tongue too tied up in knots — he simply nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

It takes everything in Mickey to form a response and even then it croaks out of him, his vocal cords betraying him in the very last second. “Yeah, see you tomorrow.”

Another sharp nod and Ian is ducking out of there so fast that Mickey feels the knife twisting so painfully in his chest that he escapes into his room, slamming the door closed behind him. 

Suddenly Mickey is flowing through quick sand, his feet wading through the thick release of every memory he’s created in the last month. Every breath, every look, every hit, every beer he chugged, every cigarette he burned. They all drag down his body and make it impossible to move so Mickey stays frozen in the moonlight, in the darkness of his room. Alone. 

He doesn’t know how to explain what it feels like. The combative nature of polar opposite ends of his life, two sides of his singular self that keep fighting for dominance. The man that he is and the man he thinks he needs to be. And it’s not fair that Mickey can’t have it all. It’s not fair that he can’t let himself relish in the small moments, take in the happiness, bask in the glory of what he’s achieved. He can’t let himself be touched by a beautiful man and he can’t let that beautiful man into his life because Mickey ruins things. 

He ruins everything he touches. 

And then it tramples him. It hits him like a freight train speeding full force on the tracks and aimed for his gut or a high speed truck cascading off a highway and landing square on his chest. It causes every bit of oxygen to be expelled out of his lungs, his skin a coat of ice over his organs that all rumble in unison and come alive all at once. His fingertips tingle and it’s hitting him. 

It’s crash landing right into the delicate muscle of his heart in a way that nothing ever has. It’s the first time in his life that Mickey can see himself clearly and he’s standing on the precipice of what feels wrong and what is wrong. What he can have and what he isn’t letting himself have. 

For all the times that Mickey swore it wasn’t like that, that he wasn’t like that, that the aching in his chest was nothing more than an afterthought — he stands in his bedroom silently and it hits him. 

It is like _that_. 

Mickey is like _that_. 

And maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s not bad. Maybe, just maybe — it could be _good_. 

If only he could let himself have it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely HATE to leave it there but there are big moves coming in the next few chapters so expect long reads in the future. In case anyone is wondering about Ian, he is indeed bipolar in this verse but in the 70s, the term didn't really exist nor was it thought of as a serious illness so when Ian speaks flippantly about it - it's from both from his weariness to accept his illness and little to no factual information from his doctor.
> 
> Aside from that, I hope you all enjoy and thank you as always for reading!
> 
> come talk to me at:  
> [@s11mikhailo](https://twitter.com/s11mikhailo) \- twitter // [xgoldendays](https://xgoldendays.tumblr.com) \- tumblr //  
> [s11mikhailo](https://curiouscat.qa/s11mikhailo) \- curiouscat


	15. Take This Longing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this chapter is definitely the longest one so far, clocking in at a healthy 13k. I'm so sorry it took me so long but I think you'll see why I wanted this one to really be perfect. It's a special chapter so please let me know what you think, as always because it would mean a great deal to me. Also I'm sorry for being bad at replying to comments, it's been that kind of mental health week for me but I promise I read and see everything that you guys say and I love you all!
> 
> as always shout outs to - [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse) and [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor) because I'd simply be lost without them.

In prison, Mickey was used to being surrounded by men. 

Tall, short, broad, stocky. Men with tattoos across their chest, scars over their biceps, small and unassuming or strong and commanding. Men like Mickey who were in the wrong place at the wrong time or men who took lives, men who burned their bridges and disintegrated their futures. 

He saw these men every day for seven years, learned about them without wanting to, became acquaintances with some and that was just what Mickey had to do to survive. There was no surviving in prison alone. His roommate from years three to seven was Roy and Roy was a good enough guy — in there for attempted murder but no one would have ever known. The man was all smiles half the time, bright and chock full of jokes, not unlike Ian. 

And Mickey spent time with Roy. Played dominoes with him at lunch, talked to him about his wife and kids, shared books in their cell, and passed papers with handmade crosswords until they both gave up to exhaustion. 

But Roy wasn’t his friend. He never could have been Mickey’s friend. 

Because as it was for most men, prison or not, there were certain urges that they couldn’t escape. Compulsory aches that sometimes hands just didn’t quell and Mickey at worst was simply just a man. Like his brothers and dad before him, Mickey found himself crawling on top of a man in the wee hours of the night just to get off. A mere side effect of being imprisoned without a woman. 

Or at least it was supposed to be just a means to get off because as Mickey looks back on his time in prison, on the men he fucked or the ones he let slip their mouths between his legs, he realizes now that it was never just that. Roy had a wife and a child, while Mickey had only ever fucked women because he had to, because his brothers heckled him for being too much of a fag to get it up. 

The thought of being like that, of being anything other than straight and narrow never crossed his mind — didn’t pass his thoughts when he enjoyed the firmness of a man’s hips or the strong planes of his chest. It didn’t occur to him at all. And when prison was over, the moment Mickey breathed real air again, he let it go. He banished every single second he spent with a man and left it behind him like he did every other foul memory in the recesses of his mind. It was supposed to end in prison. 

But it’s not like that with Ian.

No, Ian takes up his space and sucks the oxygen out of his lungs. Ian is warmth and electricity. He’s irritating and soothing, happiness and fear. Ian is beautiful and strong and so full of life that Mickey feels it radiating off of him every second of every day. Ian tears at his defenses and climbs over his walls. He does things that men have never done for Mickey. 

And maybe that’s what Mickey fears the most. That someone has finally discovered how to get in.

When the sun creeps through Mickey’s curtains the following morning, it feels like no time has passed. Hours of stand still, of restless back and forth within his own thoughts, and when he looks himself in the mirror his internal torment has manifested as exhaustion written through every line of his face. 

In his life, Mickey had only ever known fight or flight. Confronting his problems head on or ignoring them until they went away. Everything inside of him is telling him to flee except the sad and weak muscle that thrums in his chest that tells him to confront, that urges him to push. And the fact of the matter is, Mickey doesn’t know which is scarier — the risk or the reward. 

The morning goes as normal, the same mundane actions of his everyday life but instead of arriving to work early with a slight skip to his step, Mickey is unplugged, disconnected. His eyes are blurry with overthinking and when Sean speaks to him as he walks in, he jumps instinctively. 

“7:02, kid. Don’t make me go all boss on you and get back there.” Sean has a weary look of his own, more scraggly in appearance than usual but it’s comforting in its own way. He puts a hand on Mickey’s shoulder as he passes, a brief squeeze but it feels like solidarity. Understanding. 

Mickey’s eyes defensively scan the back room as he passes, doing his best to squeeze through his chattering coworkers unnoticed. None of them turn to look his way as they huddle around for aprons or crack open new cases of beef and when Mickey approaches his locker, he rests his head on the cool metal for a moment of peace. 

The time clock behind him makes the loud punching noise to signify someone’s arrival but Mickey doesn’t even flinch. He inhales sharply before pulling back, rolling out his shoulders in a way that brings no relief. _It’ll be okay. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal,_ he tells himself, even though they all feel like lies. There’s an urge there to punch a hole in the wall, to lash out and get angry but he holds it in. For now. 

“Hey.” Ian’s voice breaks through the thick veil of silence as it often does but this time, it sends a shockwave through Mickey’s body rendering him useless.

Well, there goes he’s so-called moment of peace. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d show up,” Ian continues and Mickey can almost imagine the way he’s standing, his hands probably shoved into his pockets as a nervous tick. 

Mickey doesn’t speak at first as he shoves his stuff in his locker, a bit more frantically than he usually does. Ian’s tone brings back the feelings from the night prior and a scorching heat rattles up his spine to the back of his neck. This isn’t fair. This was supposed to be easy. A life away from his family, away from his problems and his past but no — now Mickey is clouded by silly things like hope, desire, and longing. They manifest in a warmth that bubbles over into rage, a much more acceptable emotion than sadness or fear. 

Mickey knows how to close doors, board up windows, and build walls. He knows exactly how to hide in plain sight but Ian somehow keeps finding him anyway.

Without meaning to, Mickey pushes the locker door closed aggressively and he snatches an apron off his usual pile, sliding it around his body as he joins the rest of the staff in the crowded kitchen space. Ian follows in tow and Mickey can imagine the bewildered look on his face. 

There’s a full roar in the room as the girls find their serving trays and the men whip out utensils in a clash of metal. Everyone bustles around the two men, their voices creating a loud buzz that apparently makes Ian comfortable enough to speak. 

“Are we really doing this? The silent treatment?”

He’s not wrong but Mickey can’t find the strength to admit it, not among the other things he’s been forced to realize. In continued silence, Mickey grabs a spatula and the pancake mix, sliding it onto the table next to him. This only results in a glower from Ian that Mickey catches from the corner of his eye. It should be easy to say something, to tell him the air is clear and everything’s fine but Mickey’s mind won’t stop reeling. It won’t stop _thinking_. 

Coming up beside him, Ian keeps some distance between them which isn’t normal. He’s usually bumping into Mickey at every given moment but he hangs back, grabbing his own spatula with a clenched jaw. 

Sean calls out that they’re open and the two of them go to work immediately, completing the first few orders in total silence. Ian is so uncharacteristically quiet that a few of the others notice, jokingly ribbing at him and he replies with brief chuckles and short one word answers. It’s only when Mickey turns back to slide a stack of pancakes onto a plate that Ian attempts to get in front of him, his voice lower than the clattering in the kitchen. 

“Can you at least look at me?”

Mickey picks a spot on the wall in front of him to stare at, using Fiona’s voice calling out an order as an excuse to get around him. Ian runs a hand over his face, nodding to himself and this time he doesn’t follow after Mickey. Instead, he stands in his spot and he starts undoing the strings to his apron right as Mickey turns his back on him. 

“I’m taking my break,” Ian calls out to Fiona, whose shoes squeak on the linoleum as she chimes in from the front of house. 

“Now?” she asks and even with his back turned, Mickey can imagine the sibling look they share because she quickly answers her own question. “Okay, just be back before half past.” 

There’s no denying the slight jab Mickey gets in his chest when Ian stalks off out the back door, nearly slamming it open on his way out. The steel rattles as it falls closed and Mickey ducks his head, focusing on the orders in front of him instead of the distinct urge to go after him.

Thankfully, the rush kicks in only ten minutes later and he’s battling with the only other fry cook on hand to get orders out at a decent pace. There’s no sign of Ian even as the clock ticks past half past but eventually the back door rattles open again, bringing with it the smell of smoke. Ian ducks into the back room and Fiona is not far behind, her hands on her hips like an upset mother. Mickey can’t hear a word they’re saying over the chaos and by the time the orders die down, Ian is back at work with Fiona running a hand over her forehead with a heavy sigh. 

“Mickey, your turn. Break.” 

There’s no need to tell him twice and Mickey is quickly shedding his apron, tossing it in the pile as he heads out to the front. He makes sure not to search for Ian, no matter what his instincts tell him to do. This is Ian’s fault. Ian brought this on both of them and Mickey doesn’t have to coddle his feelings. He doesn’t. 

Maybe if he says it enough times, he’ll actually believe it. 

Mickey walks out into the dining room and makes a beeline for his usual booth, only to receive a balled up napkin to the side of the face. His expression morphs into a scowl, directing at whatever kid thinks they’re hilarious but when he sees it’s only Sandy, it’s only that much worse. Letting out a breath, Mickey reluctantly slides into the booth his cousin is occupying and snatches a handful of fries off her plate. He’s not fazed by her showing up randomly anymore, no amount of telling her to fuck off would change her mind anyway. 

“Happy Friday,” Sandy starts, flipping idly through a magazine that’s at least a month out of date by now. 

“What’s so happy about it?”

The magazine goes ignored the second the pair start up with their usual bickering and Sandy pouts as she chews on her straw that’s stuck in a glass of orange juice. “Can’t it just be a nice day?” 

“It’s always a nice day when you leave me the fuck alone,” Mickey retaliates, blatantly chewing his food in a way that he knows annoys her. 

He knows it’s working when Sandy sucks down her orange juice until she gets to the very last bit and slurps up the remains, being equally as obnoxious as Mickey. “Or maybe it’s because someone’s birthday is coming up.”

And the real reason she’s there comes to light. He should have been expecting it. For years in prison, she sent him birthday cards — little notes or details about what they could have been doing if he was on the outside. It was more of a pipe dream than anything, Mickey never actually thought she was serious. Milkoviches and birthdays weren’t exactly a match made in heaven. Not when Terry Milkovich pawned all of their presents and smashed their noses as a form of well wishes. 

“Don’t start,” Mickey warns her as he settles back into the booth, already feeling a pounding headache brewing behind his eyeballs. 

Sandy whines, setting the empty glass aside and resting her chin in her hands. “Oh come on, your first birthday back on the outside. We should do something.”

“We should forget it is what we should do.”

Her mouth parts to get out another healthy rebuttal but she goes quiet and her eyes fall to something just behind Mickey, something that makes her gaze go pensive. Mickey thinks she’s daydreaming at first but when Ian comes into view, gathering trays off empty tables, it suddenly makes much more sense. 

“What’d you do to him?” Sandy lowers her voice enough to not draw Ian’s attention, pretending to be fixated on the salt shaker as she loads some onto the remaining fries. 

“I didn’t do shit.” 

“Liar.”

“Not all of Gallagher’s fucking problems have to do with me.”

“They do when he looks at you like that,” Sandy tells him pointedly, angling her head to the right where only a couple of tables away, Ian is bussing with a very clear frown on his face. It’s foreign, watching him look so forlorn and lost — empty behind those expressive eyes. 

Mickey gets another twist in his chest and he shoves another fry in his mouth as a distraction. “Get your eyes checked.”

“Whatever you did, fix it, assface.” Sandy kicks him under the table and Mickey bites his tongue to stop himself from yelping, knocking his boot against her knee but not enough to actually hurt her. 

“Mind your damn business.”

“Then get your own damn food.” She pulls the plate away as some kind of threat, an icy cool venom coating her words and Mickey knows he can’t explain it to her. He can’t give her the sordid backstory without putting himself on the chopping block. Even with Sandy, the truth isn’t easy. 

“Bitch,” Mickey insults her half heartedly, breathing only a very short sigh of relief when Ian finally heads back to the kitchen and he isn’t confronted with the sight of the kicked puppy.

“Idiot.” Sandy lets out a sigh of her own but more one of defeat though it’s clearly only temporary defeat at best. “Fine, but I’m not happy about it.”

That makes two of them.

— 

“I’m telling you you’re wrong, man.” 

It’s Sunday, his day off, and Mickey is sweating his ass off at the South Shore Docks yet again, his ass planted on a old gas cylinder while Colin and Joey go back and forth about another dumb fucking topic. 

“And I’m telling you that it’s fucking possible.” Joey spits out as he kicks a mound of dirt, some of the sand traveling in the wind and blowing past Colin’s head.

Mickey is only half listening as he lights his third cigarette of the day, his legs spread to support the weight of his elbows as he blows smoke out in large clouds. They got their drop an hour ago but after Terry left, something in the air eased up and they fell into their default with each other — useless bickering and name calling. It was almost normal. Almost like it used to be. 

“What do you think, Mick?” Colin calls out with a raised brow and Mickey blinks, holding his cigarette between two fingers as he leans forward. 

“About what?”

His brother rolls his eyes, opening and closing a pocket knife he had buried in the pocket of his jeans. “You daydreaming or what? Joey’s been saying that you can’t one punch a guy to death and I’m saying you can.”

Mickey catches the glint of the metal in the sunlight and he remembers Colin bragging about stabbing a kid in juvie with it, urging him to do the same if anyone ever fucked with him. 

A snort passes through Mickey’s lips and he takes a long inhale before answering. “With your pansy ass hands? I’m betting no.”

Joey breaks into a fit of laughter, using a beer bottle he got from their stash to wave at Colin with. “He got you there.”

“Fuck both of you,” Colin growls and from Mickey’s left, Jamie pokes his head out from the truck of the car, his hands full of boxes. 

“Or fuck all of you because I’m doing all the work.”

It’s oddly normal, playful, brotherly, but it’s empty. It doesn’t mean they care about each other. When he’s with them, Mickey pretends to be just like them. Uncaring, unfeeling, crass, and dirty. Feelings don’t exist and money is all that matters. They don’t climb over Mickey’s walls. No, the Milkovich men construct buildings around their emotions, forge lives around keeping everyone else out. 

Jamie tosses a bag toward Colin who catches it with a dry chuckle, nodding as he goes over to his brother and starts helping him load the rest of the bags. Milwaukee is their destination tonight, meaning their day won’t be an overnighter at least. One night without Mickey’s sleep schedule being fucked sounds like a godsend. 

The men finish packing up all the boxes into the car before piling in for the ride - Colin and Jamie upfront while Mickey gets stuck in the backseat again with Joey. It’s a three hour car trip at best and the siblings spend half the time arguing while Mickey chain smokes, his window half cracked to let the clouds billow out onto the highway. 

They trade stupid jokes, mock whatever faggy ass disco song comes on the radio, and trade a blunt back and forth when Mickey runs out of cigarettes. Out on the road, something changes and it’s as if for a few hours, they’re actually heading somewhere else, somewhere new once and for all. Maybe that’s what Mickey hoped for between Los Angeles and Chicago but it’s always the same story, the same Southside that waits for them when the dreaming is over.

It’s just nearing dark when the Milkoviches make the drop, fully dark when they finally collect the cash and head home. 

Colin pulls up outside Mickey’s apartment around 11pm — an earlier arrival for them — while Jamie snores and Joey rolls the barrel of a pistol he found buried between the seat cushions. Mickey opens the door to get out but he catches Colin staring at him so he ducks his head into Jamie’s open passenger side window. 

“What?”

“Picking you up next Sunday. Pops said we got a big one,” Colin explains, his hands curled around the steering wheel. 

Sunday.

Mickey doesn’t show his thought process on his face and just nods. “What time?”

“Dunno, eight or something. We gotta do the trade off when it’s dark.”

A curt nod and Mickey slaps the roof once with his palm as he pulls back, his hands going to his pockets. “Right, yeah. Got it.”

“Don’t pussy out on us, Mick. I mean it.” Colin watches him as he speaks, his mouth settling into a thin line but he doesn’t say anything else — just starts the car and tears off down the empty side street, leaving Mickey standing on the sidewalk. 

Another sunday drug run. Happy birthday to him.

—

From Sunday to Tuesday, Mickey keeps mostly to himself and he keeps up the disappearing act with Ian up without much of a hitch. The other man barely looks at him at this point and their shifts start and end with neither of them saying a single word to each other that isn’t work related. Most of their coworkers can’t be bothered to notice but Fiona, Sandy, Sean - they all ask what’s up between them. Ask why Mickey is so serious again and Ian isn’t his usual grinning self around him. He spends three days blowing their comments off, saying it’s nothing. They’re not best friends, they’re just coworkers — two guys in the same space. That’s it. 

None of them buy it and while Mickey knows that Sandy is eager to ask more questions, she doesn’t. She knows that questions like that might be crossing dangerous territory with him. Just the utterance of anything more than friendship around a Milkovich is too much — fighting words at best. It’s late evening on the same Tuesday and Sandy finishes up fixing Mickey dinner, leaving him with some grey looking meatloaf before telling him she’s off to meet Debbie for a sleepover. 

Women. He doesn’t get them one bit. 

She ruffles his hair when she goes, tells him to call her later and behave himself. To drink water and get to bed early. Even when Sandy isn’t actively trying to be his mom, she still does it anyway but right now, it’s comforting. It’s what he needs. Someone who cares but doesn’t push him. When she’s gone, Mickey sets himself up on the couch with a bowl of food and puts on whatever the current channel is showing, chomping down like a rabid animal. Today, it seems to be some game show he’s never heard of — just a bunch of middle aged housewives trying to match celebrity answers or something. 

TV doesn’t make much sense to him either. 

The game show eventually fades into the commercial break and Mickey props a pillow up under his head, his eyes closing the moment it hits the lumpy cushioning. For the last few days, his head has been on overdrive, a constant movement of thought and he wants nothing more than to sit still, to fucking rest. 

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

Three heavy thumps on his front door and Mickey slaps a hand over the front of his face because of course — what’s one more thing to interrupt him? Mickey lays there listening to the white noise in hopes that whoever it is will go away but then there’s another knock and one more and it’s such a dull rhythm that even turning the volume up on the television won’t drown it out. 

Mickey takes a swig from a forgotten beer bottle — one he left there hours ago — and the lukewarm liquid slides easily down his throat. At best, it’s one of those church freaks with their crosses and pamphlets but at worst, it’s someone he really can’t see or he might be sick on the spot. But there’s no way it’s him. He doesn’t have the guts. 

Undoing the chain without thinking, Mickey opens the door about halfway and stops it from drifting with one socked foot. The booze must have gone to his head because when he sees Ian standing there, his knees go weak and his chest gives angry horse kicks to his rib cage. After what happened at the diner and every day gone by with them avoiding each other, Mickey didn’t expect Ian to have the balls to show up there but then again, he has clearly been underestimating a lot when it comes to Ian. 

“What do you want?” Mickey questions, ignoring the urge to slam the door though his fingers press into the doorknob just in case. 

Ian looks the same as always with his stupid button ups and corduroys but his hair is shaggy, curlier in the front than Mickey is used to and his stare gives away restlessness. “Can we talk?”

Mickey must be a fucking idiot because he motions back toward the idle TV, as if that’s a good enough excuse. “Not a good time.” 

It’s clear that Ian can see right through him — Mickey as transparent as plastic — and he scoffs lightly, his hand curling at his side. “Then name a good time,” he insists through gritted teeth. 

“Later.” Mickey mimics Ian’s agitated tone perfectly and he tugs on the doorknob, trying his best to get the door closed before Ian does — well, exactly what he ends up doing. His hand shoots out like it’s done before, pushing back on the wood but this time, Ian looks _angry_. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ian snarls, using his larger frame to try and overpower Mickey’s stubbornness. 

“Let go of my fucking door, Gallagher.”

Mickey pushes back with the same heated ferocity and there’s electricity shooting between them but it’s vicious zaps instead of sparks of passion. 

“Maybe when you stop being such a coward.”

The words that leave Ian’s mouth make Mickey’s hand drop off and he lets go of the door, using his palm instead to shove at the other man’s chest. “What the fuck did you say to me?”

“Coward,” Ian spits again, blazing behind his eyes in a way that would be distracting at any other moment. He isn’t fazed by the shove, so little that he offers up one of his own. 

It’s like they’re two children tugging at each other’s hair instead of two grown men airing their grievances but at the same time, it feels exactly like what they should be doing. 

Mickey’s brows crease so sharply that his whole face contorts and he pushes Ian again, knocking him a few paces back into the dirt. “You don’t know shit.”

He watches Ian stumble, kicking up a dust cloud around his feet and just the sight of him causes his blood to heat up. Mickey can’t remember the last time his anger exploded this badly but with Ian, every emotion is elevated. Everything he chooses to feel and not to feel is taken to the extreme. 

Ian spits into the dirt out of pure spite and he reaches to grab Mickey by the collar, his knuckles straining against his skin. “Because you won’t let me!” 

And then it kicks in. Mickey gets hold of Ian in much the same way and he elbows him sharply in the side, causing them both to fall into the gravel. It’s a good old-fashioned scrap and Ian gets his knuckles to press into Mickey’s neck, while the other launches a fist that just grazes over Ian’s jawline. They grip, pull, tug at each other until they’re both fighting for air and Mickey is the first one to pull back, turning over onto his back. 

Ian does the same only moments later, his body lying right besides Mickey while both of their chests heave as they try to regain their breath. Their clothes are covered in dirt and a bit of blood slides from Mickey’s lip while a bruise forms just along the sharp lines of Ian’s jaw. 

“Fuck you,” Mickey mutters, breaking the silence and the tension. Nothing feels resolved and the anger he felt in a whirlwind has dissipated to a heavy settling guilt. 

“Feel better?”

A long pause and it’s not heat boring down on them but the near autumnal chill of the afternoon. 

“I’ll let you know.”

Ian nods and he waits a good while before speaking again, busting himself by sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. “What are you so scared of?” He turns his head to look at Mickey, his eyes roaming over the planes of Mickey’s profile and he speaks barely above a whisper. “Just fucking talk to me.”

Mickey only wishes it were that easy. But nothing is easy, not when even the truth feels difficult. He thinks about what his brothers would say, his dad, the whole fucking world and he’s just so _angry_. 

“I can’t.”

It’s sick and sad, stomach turning and Mickey hasn’t been that honest all while saying nothing. Just the single word explaining that there’s something there to fear. 

“Then can you at least walk with me somewhere?”

Mickey turns to watch Ian then, blinking a few times to stop his head from spinning. “Where?”

Pushing up off the ground, Ian runs his hands over his clothes to shake the dirt loose and in the dim afternoon light, the clouds glow orange behind him. “You’re gonna just have to trust me.” Ian extends a hand to Mickey then and he reluctantly takes it, letting Ian help him stand. 

The two share glances, only brief connecting of eyes and even that makes Mickey lightheaded. He lets go of Ian’s hand and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, catching the faintest taste of blood. “Lead the way.”

Ian doesn’t smile but he does nod one more time, walking ahead of Mickey as they go down his street but instead of heading toward the L, Ian leads them down the space between a few houses. It’s where neighbors collect trash and parents go to argue it out away from their kids. They walk through in relative silence, coming out on the other end where a more bustling city scape meets them. 

It’s nothing like downtown Chicago but it’s active, handfuls of degenerates piling into bars or eating hamburgers out of shifty trucks parked illegally on the sidewalk. Mickey isn’t much for wandering so it’s no shock to him that he missed something so close to home. They keep walking, passing by a noisy Chinese restaurant where Ian dips into the alleyway and he’s instantly blanketed by darkness. 

Ian takes a few steps until he passes a dumpster, tugging down a ladder from the overhanging fire escape and the rust practically flies off of it in chunks, combining with the wind that swirls around them. It looks like a death trap, somewhere where murderers take unsuspecting victims to drop them forty feet onto the pavement. Mickey narrows his eyes at it while Ian holds the ladder steady, a strand of hair falling into his face. 

“Up you go,” Ian tells him without any hesitation, bringing the rungs farther down with the help of his foot. 

Mickey blinks like he must be fucking crazy and he turns his head up to look at how far up it goes, extending past his line of sight until it blends with the skyline. “You want me to climb that?”

“Yeah. That’s usually what people do with ladders.” 

It’s when Mickey isn’t expecting it that Ian whips out the sarcasm, the sly comments that pack a punch and it’s admirable. The fact that Ian can be just as much of an asshole as he is.

“Eat me.” Mickey takes hold of the ladder anyway and tugs it down, allowing Ian to move aside but only by a few inches. 

“You’re gonna have to ask nicer than that.”

They’re closer than they’ve been in weeks and when Ian speaks so closely to his ear, the goosebumps that Mickey thought somehow faded are back again with a vegenance. He takes the first rung of the ladder up before turning back, serving Ian with a middle finger because words don’t seem like enough. 

Mickey’s boots dig into each rusted part of the ladder as he makes his way up, stepping onto each threshold one by one. He can feel Ian following closely behind him and the thought makes him self conscious, suddenly hyper aware that Ian’s eyes are on him — they must be. It’s the only explanation to the tingling that surges up his spine with every step. 

He wants to hate Ian for this but he can’t. He’s tried and he can’t. 

It doesn’t take more than five minutes and when he gets to the top, Mickey lifts himself up and over the lip of the building until his feet touch the flat surface of the roof. There’s not much at first glance, just some industrial shit — a few pipes and some stray work men’s tools but for the most part, it’s a vast empty roof. One of many that litter the Southside and the neighboring trash heaps. 

Ian comes up behind him and with a hand on the small of his back, nudges him forward. Mickey ignores the way his shoulders tense up at the touch and starts moving, stepping over bits of stray rubble on the ground. Ian guides them to the other side of the roof where the street comes into view and then Mickey suddenly understands. The lights from below extend upward into the sky, mixing with the stars to create a mirage of color. It’s all neon signs and blaring horns - the shining sign of the Apollo flanking just behind their left shoulders. 

It makes Chicago look nice. It makes it look like a place worth living. It reminds him of the lights of Vegas and those days seem to almost exist on another plane, ages and worlds away from where they are now. 

The pair walk all the way to the edge before Ian stops, taking a seat on the ground and letting his feet dangle over the side. “When I was a kid, Lip used to bring me out here. Said it was the best place to clear his head.”

“Never seen it like this before,” Mickey admits as he takes the spot next to Ian though he keeps an inch or so between their legs.

From his left pocket, Ian pulls out a carton of cigarettes that he lays by his side and he slides one out, lighting it up between his lips. “Thanks for coming with me.” He takes a long drag before handing the cigarette over and Mickey doesn’t blush when their fingers touch this time.

“Pretty sure your annoying ass wouldn’t have left me alone anyway.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” Ian confirms with a laugh and they both stare out at the cityscape, trading a single cigarette between the two of them. Smoke clouds around them and something about it is oddly poetic, a scene out of a movie that Mickey has never seen. 

They wear the one Marlboro down to the halfway point and when Ian goes to reach for another, Mickey speaks up. “Been a few days. Guess you could — I don’t know, ask me something.”

“You’re offering?”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

Ian lights up their next stick and he lets Mickey have the first drag as if to prepare him for what he’s about to ask him. “Is it your dad?”

It’s exactly what Mickey thought but that doesn’t mean he didn’t wish for something different. If it was anyone else, he wouldn’t do this. Expose his underbelly, his softest parts but for Ian, he wants to. He needs to. It’s far from the whole story, only a small fraction of all of Mickey’s broken pieces but at its bare bones, it’s the truth. Plain and simple. 

“He’d kill me himself.”

Ian blinks through Mickey’s exhale of smoke and there’s no hesitance, no disgust, nothing but those earnest green eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with you, you know that right?”

The chuckle that comes out is against his will, more one of disbelief than anything. Mickey knows there’s a laundry list of things wrong with him. Ian just doesn’t know them yet. “I don’t know what I know anymore, man.”

“I think you owe it to yourself to figure it out.” Ian sounds hopeful when he says it — a dreamy quality to it that’s almost admirable. 

“Says you. Got all the answers.” 

“I fucking wish.” Ian snorts, dropping his hand to let the cigarette dangle just over his right knee. He turns his attention to the city lights and they dance over his features, briefly illuminating the two of them. Mickey doesn’t know where this will end up, if it will be anything at all and Ian only confirms that he’s thinking the same when he keeps talking. “I’m not asking for forever, Mickey. I’m just asking for a moment.” A pause. “If all we’ve got is this summer, I think I can be okay with that.”

“I don’t make promises,” Mickey admits, shrugging once as he kicks his legs back and forth over the edge. 

“Yeah, I know.”

Ian places his hand beside Mickey’s where it’s resting on the edge of the roof and when their fingers brush up against each other’s, the electricity comes back but it’s slowed down to those cool sparks that shoot through Mickey’s nerves. They sit there on that rooftop for over an hour until their lungs are blackened and the shops start closing. They sit there until there’s nothing left to say, at least not for now. It’s not a resolution but it’s something.

It’s that if all they’ve got is this summer, maybe they can be okay with that.

— 

Thursday comes around before Mickey has a chance to even catch up. It’s all a blur of time, all muddled together and the only real thing he’s gotten from it, is that it's days closer to his birthday. Three days closer to being another year older but not necessarily another year wiser. 

At 10AM, Mickey sits down in his usual chair right in front of Larry Seaver’s desk while the man digs around for a Fleetwood Mac vinyl to slide onto his record player. It’s a new group every week with Larry but at least this time, it’s not disco. He already suffered a whole week of ‘Waterloo’ playing in his mind for absolutely no fucking reason. 

They do their usual schtick for the first half hour with no sock puppet in sight and Mickey thinks he’s in the clear, another week in the books. Only seventy odd weeks left. 

Larry clears his throat as he finishes up his writing, using his silver pen to tap the front of Mickey’s file. He’s smiling so tightly that it’s almost a smirk, his glasses hanging on the end of his nose. “Says here a certain man sitting in my chair is going to have a birthday.”

Mickey lets out an exasperated sigh and he sits back, the base of his neck hitting the head of the chair. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to forget it.”

The other man shakes his head at that and reaches into his top desk drawer, pulling out the sock puppet that is starting to haunt Mickey’s nightmares. He’s not sure if the man used to teach kindergarten or what but Mickey is too afraid to ask. 

With the sock firmly on his hand, Larry moves his fingers to move the sock’s mouth all while putting on a cartoon like voice. “Don’t be silly, Mickey. Birthdays are a celebration of you, which is always important.”

In over a month, Mickey has grown comfortable around his parole officer. Comfortable enough that he doesn’t hesitate to stare at him with an awkward grimace. “Enough with the sock puppet, man,” he says with just the tiniest hint of irritation. 

Larry nods once in defeat, raising his hands as a sign of peace. “I’ll pretend that didn’t hurt Socky’s feelings and move on to something more important — your present.”

“Present?” Mickey’s stare gets more confused, his reflexes waiting for the punchline. 

Larry goes on to produce a rectangular box from under his desk, wrapped in shiny blue wrapping paper with a haphazard bow smacked on the top of it. 

“Open it, go on.”

Mickey eyes the box like it might reach out and bite him — something foreign and dangerous. Larry watches him expectantly and pushes the box slowly off the edge of the desk until Mickey is forced to catch it before it falls into his lap. It takes him a minute but eventually Mickey tears off the tissue paper, revealing a brand new pair of work boots that reek of leather and cotton as soon as they’re unveiled. 

“Can’t have you working with holes in your shoes, Mickey.”

He hasn’t gotten a present in over twenty years. Not from anyone. 

Mickey runs his fingers over the laces slowly and while he wouldn’t know something expensive from a knock off, it definitely feels like money. “Um, thanks.” It comes out as a half mumble and sounds disingenuous at first but Mickey quickly clears his throat to reveal a stronger tone. “Really.”

“It’s no problem, son.” Larry laughs in that way that causes his whole belly to shake and Mickey briefly wonders how different he would have been with Larry Seaver as a father. Pulling out another sheet of paper to scribble on, Larry continues. “Enjoy it and eat some cake for me, would you? I’m trying to keep the weight off for the wife.”

Mickey doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s never had a birthday cake. 

And when he leaves Larry’s office with the box tucked under his arm, Mickey holds it close and thinks maybe somewhere in all the muck and grime he has the tiniest bit of luck. 

Or at least he does until the day actually arrives. August 10th, the dreaded day marked on his calendar by Sandy’s obnoxious red scribbling — little hand drawn balloons and the words ‘Mickey’s 26th’ scratched onto the white square. 

It was clear Sandy was more excited about the occasion than he’d ever be. Mickey can’t even remember ever celebrating a birthday. 

He’d spent his tenth hiding from his parents’ fighting, his eleventh begging his mom not to leave. 

Twelfth and thirteenth in juvie. Fifteenth in a foster home after Terry ran off. Sixteenth on a drug run. Seventeenth in a coke den. 

Eighteenth through twenty-fifth in prison. 

And well — Mickey isn’t expecting the twenty-sixth try to be much different. 

So when he wakes up on the morning of August 10th, Mickey doesn’t register what day it is or that his bones crack with the weight of another year tacked onto them. No, it’s any other day. It’s nothing special. 

Mickey is just rubbing the exhaustion out of his eyes, knuckles pressing to his eyelids when he hears the phone ring — blaring loud at his bedside table. He lets out an over exaggerated groan and slaps a hand on the receiver, tugging on the cord to bring it closer to his still sleeping lower half. 

“What the fuck do you want?” Mickey gets out in a groggy croak, the sun from outside suddenly directed at his chest and creeping upwards. He expects it to be Sandy, most likely on her way there to annoy him but the voice at the other end of the line isn’t his cousin’s. 

“Is that how you greet people in the morning?” For this early in the day, Ian’s voice has that spark of liveliness in it, a whisper of amusement catching the tail end of his syllables. 

“Gallagher?” 

“Happy birthday.” Ian sounds smug, proud of himself because he’s been let in on the big secret. The one day Mickey desperately tries to avoid. 

Mickey groans comically, one of his hands resting on his chest as he feels the morning heat on the back of his skin. “Who told you?”

“Sandy.”

Of fucking course she did. 

“Great,” Mickey mutters as he gets up, nearly tripping on the phone cord with his first steps. He swings his way around it, throwing it back over his shoulder and balancing the receiver against his ear. 

“So… any big plans?” 

“What do you think?” Mickey snaps without thinking, still groggy from being woken up. 

Ian chuckles dryly and Mickey can hear the Gallagher clan in the background, yelling over their morning breakfast. “I’ll take that as a no and good thing too because I’m picking you up at seven.” 

Mickey runs a hand through his hair and he’s sure he heard him wrong. “You - for what?”

“It’s a surprise.”

A half gurgled sound comes out of the back of Mickey’s throat and he’s left without the right words, only a snappy comeback as his default. “Whatever hell you got planned with Sandy, I’m not doing it.”

Lip yells in the distance combined with the wail of a baby and Ian shuffles, the sound of a hand coming over the receiver to muffle the conversation. 

“I’ll see you at seven, Mick.”

“Hey hold on, I got —“ The line on the other end goes dead and Mickey is left stuttering at the annoying sound of a dial tone. “Fucking Gallagher.”

Colin’s words the week before resonated in the back of his skull and Mickey shivers as he puts the receiver back on its spot. 

_Dunno, eight or something_. Sunday. Today. 

Mickey looks at the clock before heading to the bathroom. 10:30AM. The tiny little clicks of the minute hand are mocking him, counting down to some sort of showdown between what Mickey wants and what he needs. 

Less than eight hours to decide where he’s going to fall. 

—

It’s nearly six-thirty when Mickey really starts spiraling. He’s dressed in his usual clothes — dark t-shirt and jeans — but he spent an hour digging around in his closet for his better pairs on the off chance that he’s feeling like signing his own death sentence. It was easy to weigh the pros and cons. Pro: he has his first real birthday as a free man. Cons: it’s his last real birthday before his dad carves up his insides with a rusty switchblade. 

It should be an easy decision. 

When the clock gets closer to seven, Mickey finds his keys and wallets and shoves them into his back pocket for safekeeping. He ignores the way his hands shake as he does so but he can’t help it. Every other decision before then somehow pales in comparison to this one because his dad didn’t know about this part of his life, he didn’t know about Ian or the Gallaghers, he didn’t know. But if Mickey actively disobeys him, he’d find out. He always finds out. 

Exhaling sharply, Mickey walks outside his apartment into the crisp night air and finds a spot on the wall to lean against. He pulls out a cigarette to calm his nerves, letting the nicotine bring him some clarity as it often does and thinks and thinks and thinks. He thinks about Ian’s eyes and his smile, he thinks about the Gallaghers and their loud antics. He thinks about beers with Lip and Sandy’s constant presence. He thinks about what he deserves and if he’d ever find it in the desert, in running from the cops, or in pounds of cocaine.

Minutes later and a car pulls up outside his apartment, honking the horn to get his attention. Mickey glances up to catch Ian waving a hand at him and he stands there, watching that same invisible line threaten him again. It’s closer now than ever before and when Mickey catches Ian’s gaze, he makes another choice. He stubs out his cigarette under his boot and he walks toward the car, moving to the passenger’s side and sliding in right next to Ian.

He’s going to live his life before he can’t anymore. When Mickey closes the door to the car, he knows he’s not just crossing a line anymore. He’s wiping the line clear, dragging his boot across the sand until it doesn’t exist so that maybe for once, Mickey can decide for himself where the lines should be drawn. 

Ian switches the gear to the car to reverse and starts backing out of the parking lot to head onto the road. “Glad you could join us.”

“Where’d you get the car?” Mickey asks nonchalantly, ignoring the rapid palpitating in his chest. His brothers are due there any minute and if they catch him, he is as good as dead. 

“Debbie’s car. She’s at the place with Sandy.”

Mickey’s eyes move up to the rearview mirror as Ian drives, his attention on his apartment for as long as he can before it fades out of view. “You gonna tell me what the place is?”

“Nope,” Ian replies as he messes with the radio station buttons, finding something neutral to play. He’s dressed nicer than usual from what Mickey briefly notices — a satin shirt and black dress pants and his hair is pushed back out of his face, held by a healthy serving of hair gel. 

“If you try to fucking murder me, just know I’m killing you first.” Mickey takes one more look out of the rear view mirror and for a second, he swears he can see a Ford Torino pulling onto his street but when he blinks, it’s gone. A trick of the light. 

Eventually, the panic fades and Mickey pushes the thoughts of his brothers away as best he can. The more he thinks about it, the more his palms sweat and the nausea threatens to overwhelm him. There’s no avoiding the consequences that will come to him from this but for one night, Mickey isn’t going to let his dad run his life. Just this one time. 

Ian drives them a good ways away from Mickey’s corner of the Southside but it takes a minute for Mickey to realize that the place is familiar. He manages to keep his mouth shut about it, knowing that Ian won’t spill the beans but when he sees a hot pink neon sign blaring into his eyes, he can’t stop himself from swearing out loud. 

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

The roller rink comes into view and it’s just as much of a monstrosity as Mickey remembers, if not more so. It’s made worse by countless more people crowding the streets and in his annoyance, Mickey debates on whether this was actually the right decision. Ian pulls the car into a parking lot just a block or so away and Mickey scowls, not budging an inch even as Ian turns off the car and goes over to his side. 

“Let’s go, birthday boy.”

Mickey can already feel the embarrassment flaring up and turning his neck a bright shade of red but Ian is opening his car door, looking at him with those damn puppy dog eyes and he’s already weak. He growls under his breath and gets out of the car, bumping into even more throngs of teenagers that giggle and skip as they hurry into the rink. If it was off-putting during the day then at night, it’s basically another planet. 

It’s all sequins and glitter, bright colors that make Mickey’s eyes ache and unlike the morning when the lights weren’t in full effect, there’s a technicolor splash of lights as the main ones are dimmed to put the spotlight on the rink floor. Mickey walks just behind Ian as he heads in, creating a path for the two of them. 

Him, Ian, Sandy and Debbie at a roller rink as the oldest people there. What fucking idea of fun?

At one of the tables though, it’s not just Sandy and Debbie. No, there’s at least a handful of other people crowded around and screaming over the music, passing beer bottles between their hands. He spots Fiona pressed up against Sean’s side while Debbie sits off to the side, tying some tiny skates on Frannie’s feet. Lip is the main one at the actual table, already cradling a beer in his hand while Sandy talks his ear off, her hands waving as she goes on. Even Carl and the littlest Gallager sibling, Liam, are there but busy arguing over a pile of nachos.

“They wanted to wish you a happy birthday,” Ian says over Mickey’s right shoulder, directly into his ear and he’s smiling, all teeth and soft cheeks.

As they break through the crowd, Sandy spots them right away and she clunkily bounds over to them, her feet tied down by a pair of mustard colored skates only half hidden by her overalls.

“You actually got him here. A miracle.” She giggles as she wraps her arms around Ian, hugging him briefly until she breaks away to grab a pair of crisp white skates from under Lip’s feet. “Yours are over by Debbie, Ian.”

Ian gives her a ‘thanks’ and a squeeze to the shoulder, leaving the cousins to huddle just a few feet away from the rest of the group. 

“You’re insane,” Mickey hisses at her, already loathing the idea of existing let alone celebrating the fact that he does. “I don’t know how to fucking skate.”

“You’ll learn,” she points out, roughly shoving the skates into Mickey’s chest with a dull thump. “Put on your skates.”

The protest is already halfway out of his mouth but Sandy leaves him standing there, her chipper ass going to Debbie as if the two are attached by a magnet. Another growl comes out instead and Mickey finds a spot away from the others to slide the skates on, hating how the white contrasts sharply with the dark denim of his jeans. 

He’s midway through lacing them when Ian comes down to sit beside him, Sandy not far behind. Out on the rink, Mickey can see the others already paired off and gliding along the slick rink floor like they were born for it. Not a single one of them even stumbles, not even Franny and Mickey swears. 

He’s the only one who can’t fucking skate.

“I look like an asshole,” he tells them, staring down both of them in the hopes it might set them on fire or better yet, the whole damn place. 

Sandy laughs and she reaches out to help Mickey to his feet, her cheeks blushed pink from the excitement. “Happy birthday. It’s about time you live a little.” She puts her hands on Mickey’s face and pinches both of his cheeks, just because she can, which earns her a swat to the arm. 

“Hey, happy birthday.” A new voice comes into their conversation and just on the other side of the rink wall is Debbie, her daughter clutching onto her hand for dear life. 

“Thanks,” Mickey mumbles, already feeling off kilter without Sandy holding onto him.

Debbie isn’t fazed though and she points to Franny, whose little hand is already reaching out to Sandy with an adorable pout on her lips. “Coming, Sandy?”

In a flash, his cousin leaves his side and joins Debbie on the other side of the wall. She offers a small wave as she leaves, matching with another fucking wink. “The lady calls. Have fun, you two.”

Ian chuckles at the sight and he moves toward Mickey, putting his hand around his elbow to hold him steady. “You look like a baby deer.”

“So fucking helpful,” Mickey bites back, his legs wobbling so much that he grabs onto Ian’s other arm for stability. 

“Just try walking but when you step, put your weight on one leg and then the other.” 

“Right, so easy.” The sarcasm drops off his words but Ian ignores it, carefully leading Mickey to the rink floor. 

The song switches as they put their skates on the slick surface for the first time and Mickey is sure he’s never hated disco more in his entire life. 

_My knees are shaking, baby. My heart it beats like a drum_. 

The music thumps in time to the dancing around them, several people doing tricks in time to the beat. Sandy and Debbie are on their second lap by the time Mickey can even stand up straight — each of the women holding one of Franny’s hands as they go. 

Mickey takes a few glides on his own just for the sake of proving his cousin wrong but he ends up losing balance, nearly colliding with a couple in matching floral jumpsuits. He waits for the impact but instead he’s met with a pair of strong arms wrapping around his middle to stop him from falling. 

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Ian’s front is pressed to his back and Mickey flushes, pushing him off but not before the shove knocks him off center. He stumbles forward, right back into Ian’s arms and the asshole laughs at him. 

_It feels like - it feels like I’m in love_.

“Graceful, huh?” Ian jokes and he pulls back, holding Mickey by the elbows again once they’ve regained stability.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Eventually finding a thread through the circle of people, Ian leads Mickey around the rink floor as the music helps them find the rhythm. It gets easier after a few tries, trying to match his movements to the pounding of the bass and soon Mickey can manage a few strides on his own without fumbling. They don’t move as quickly as the rest of the patrons or even their friends but the less time he spends being held by Ian, the better. 

“You can’t keep looking at your feet.”

“So now you’re the pro skater?”

Ian shakes his head with amusement and he tucks a finger under Mickey’s chin, angling it upwards. “Look up or you’ll fall, prick.” His laughter rumbles through Mickey’s ears and he turns a shade of pink again, flapping his arms as the gesture throws off his equilibrium. 

The sight alone is hilarious to not only Ian but the rest of the Gallaghers who pass by them, shouting ‘happy birthday’ wishes along with their heckling. Even Lip who is already boozed to high heaven sails past Mickey, slapping him on the back for good measure. 

It’s stupid and silly but something about it is inherently fun. 

Mickey doesn’t even consider the fact that he spends three songs on the rink with Ian and only Ian, watching as he does yet another thing fucking perfectly. His body knows how to move to every song, his skates doing little flourishes whenever the song gets to a beat that Ian particularly agrees with. It’s funny how in a room filled with people— hundreds in fact — that Mickey can still only find his eyes going to Ian. 

The only thing that breaks him out of his trance is the announcer coming over the speaker, calling for couples only — the music shifting to a slow romantic cover while the lights go soft and dim. Mickey goes ghostly white as teenage couples, along with Sean and Fiona end up on the dance floor with a stray Ian and Mickey bringing up the rear. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters in a flush of panic, finding the nearest exit and colliding straight into it. Mickey falls to his knees with a grunt just as Ian comes up behind him, cackling as he extends his hand out. 

“You okay?” Ian asks him as he gets Mickey to stand for the thousandth time that night. 

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Ian doesn’t let go right away, not until Mickey is safely on the carpet and out of imminent danger. He moves his hands back but only to point right behind Mickey at a set of tables, where Sandy is waving them down or really, is waving Mickey down. “Looks like you’re being summoned. Go ahead. I’ll catch you in a bit.”

Mickey nods and watches Ian head back onto the rink floor before he stumbles his way over to Sandy, feeling like the biggest asshole to ever walk on two skates. He takes the seat across from her at the table, thankfully to at least be off his feet for a minute. 

“Glad you’re getting a good laugh out of it.”

Sandy rolls her eyes, kicking her legs back and forth from her place on the stool. “It’s funny but what’s not funny is that I have something for you.” From behind her back, Sandy whips out a single cupcake — dark chocolate with red icing slathered over the top and a crooked candle plopped right in the middle. She’s grinning from behind it, clearly proud of herself. “I told Ian you didn’t want a cake but I got you this anyway. I can’t really afford to buy you anything nice so…”

Mickey swallows thickly and it all hits him in a tidal wave of emotion. It’s his birthday. A real birthday with presents, cake, friends. A fucking birthday and it’s for him. He never thought he’d see the day. Words are lost on Mickey and all he can manage is something short, the first thing that comes to his mind. “You’ve given me a lot, Sandy.”

And she has. Mickey owes Sandy for his apartment, for her support, for his sanity, for miles of road and for taking the weight of his problems onto her shoulder. He owes her for all of it and he hasn’t begun to repay her yet but he will. Mickey will find a way. 

“I just want you to be happy, Mick. No matter what that is for you.” Sandy clears her throat and he knows she’s holding back her emotions, blinking back any semblance of tears that might pop up. She pulls a lighter out of her pocket to distract, taking a few clicks before the flame comes out and she uses it to light the tip of the candle. “Okay, hurry up and make a wish.”

The candle flame flickers and it’s like time around them stands still — everyone in the room becoming faded at the edges. Mickey used to dream about all his wishes coming true. All the times he wished Terry dead, the times he wished for a better life. He used to think he had a shot at it all coming true. Mickey isn’t a kid anymore but some part of him might exist that still believes. If he only ever has one wish come true, he would be happy to know it's this one. 

Mickey readies his breath and with his wish running through his mind, he blows out the candle in one long exhale. 

_Let it all be okay. Just this once._

Sandy whoops and she sets the cupcake down on the tabletop so she can lean forward and wrap her arms tightly around her cousin. Her hair hits him in the face and he nearly topples off his chair but he hugs her right back, breathing out softly. 

When they were kids, they never got the chance to really hug. Never told each other how much they cared or shared secrets but now that they’re older, Mickey knows that at the very least he’ll always have Sandy as his family and that’s good enough for him.

“Happy birthday,” she whispers as she rubs his back with that same motherly touch that she can’t help but exude. 

Mickey doesn’t speak but he knows that Sandy understands, she knows he’s thankful. She gives him another quick squeeze before pulling back, already snatching the cupcake back up so she can undo the paper on it. 

“Now eat it, enjoy it, and then come back to the party. It’s almost the last call and I’m trying to drink my weight in beer before then.” Sandy barks out a laugh and pats Mickey on the knee, getting back onto her skates and padding her way over to the edge of the rink where Debbie is spinning Frannie in circles in their own little corner. 

Mickey watches them all — the Gallaghers, the other people in the rink and something in him yearns to keep hold of this moment for as long as he can. It reminds him of what Ian said — if they could only have a moment then they’d be okay. If Mickey could live in these good moments for the rest of his life then everything would be okay and for him, okay is happiness. It’s smiles and laughter, jokes with people who actually like him, who think of Mickey as a human and don’t see a felon, a delinquent, a Milkovich. 

People who see him for him.

Mickey could live in those moments forever.

Doing as Sandy said, Mickey eats the cupcake in just under five bites and he’s back out onto the rink floor before the next song starts playing. Ian is off on one side, doing silly jelly legged movements on his skates but when he makes eye contact with Mickey, he rolls over to him and stops just short of colliding with him. 

“Having fun?”

“It’s okay,” Mickey says, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes, signifying that he’s only teasing.

Ian matches the look and he slides backwards across the rink floor, doing small circles around Mickey. “Just okay?”

“I’m not looking to stroke your ego, Gallagher.”

Mickey raises a brow as Ian continues to do circles around him, a shit eating grin on his face and the faintest pink flush coloring his cheeks. Another word comes to mind and it’s not beautiful but fucking _cute_ and Mickey wants to curse his brain for even forming the letters in his head. 

“I tried.” Ian shrugs, using the stops on the front of his skates to slide right into Mickey’s personal space, their faces less than a foot apart. “One more go around before we go drink?”

Looking around the space, Mickey sees that no one is watching them. Not a single person has their eyes in their direction and something inside of him feels bold enough to agree. “Yeah, why not?”

Skating comes a bit easier the last go around and Mickey only bumps into the wall once, using Ian’s arm for balance when he rolls up beside him. They fall into the comfort that they’ve become used to — as friends — with Ian laughing every time Mickey nearly falls on his ass or groans about the disco reminding him of Larry. 

Ian recalls several Gallagher birthday parties that ended in fires or explosions, half eaten cakes from discount bakeries and raccoons tearing up dime store gifts. Ian’s life is far from perfect - Mickey can see that clear as day but he wonders if Ian knows how lucky he is to have the mundane, the silly, the annoying, the love. He wonders if Ian considers himself lucky to be who he is and still be alive. 

It’s nearing 11PM when a voice comes over the speaker, signifying the last call. Most of the teenagers are gone by that point, off to find parties out in the big city and leaving behind only the Gallaghers and the Milkoviches with a few odd stragglers hanging by the snack counter. The last song wraps up and both Ian and Mickey get off the rink floor, finding a bench to sit on to take off their skates. 

They both get back into their street shoes before joining the others near the bar area, where both Sandy and Lip are stumbling back and forth with sloshing beer bottles in their hands. Debbie carries Franny on her hip - the little girl passed out after a long night and she rolls her eyes at the pair of drunkards while Sean slides a couple of bills over the counter, paying for nearly half the bar that’s ended up in their gullets. 

“Time to go, you two,” Fiona calls out to the two most drunk members of their party, her hands on her hips just like she does at work. “We have to walk back to the parking lot. Are you gonna make it?”

Sandy chimes in first, pushing her messy hair out of her face while she clutches the countertop with her other hand. “Oh yeah, we’re great. We’re great, right Lip?” She waves to the eldest Gallagher brother who still has half a beer in hand.

“Yeah, doing great,” Lip slurs, raising the bottle at an angle so that some of the beer slips onto the carpet. 

Mickey gets the temptation to say something again, hyper aware of how much Lip puts back and how his body could barely stand on his skates by drink four but just the worried look on Fiona’s face is enough to get him to shut up. 

“No more for you, okay?” she tells Lip in a low but stern tone, taking the bottle out of his hand and replacing it with some water. Fiona leaves it at that though and doesn’t pursue it any further, coming up to Debbie to lightly pat Frannie’s sleeping head. “We should get everyone home.”

The gang all leaves the rink at the same time with Sandy and Lip hanging back, singing several renditions of the songs that played over the loudspeaker. It’s a miracle Debbie hasn’t killed either of them judging by the scowl on her face as they all walk down an empty street toward the parking lot. It’s not a far walk from the rink and Mickey isn’t expecting anything else. For a birthday, this is more than enough. People acknowledging his existence is more than enough. 

But when they get within eyeshot of the lot, Ian grabs Mickey’s arm and stops him while the others go on ahead. 

“What?” Mickey asks and there’s a look in Ian’s eyes he’s never really seen before. It’s a combination of embarrassment and exhiliration, his eyes glittering even more than usual. “You good?”

“Not exactly.” Ian’s free hand flexes at his side and he looks over his shoulder then back over to the group only a couple of feet ahead of them. Even Lip and Sandy pass them, all stumbles and breath reeking of booze. “Just — come here.” 

Ian motions toward a side alleyway with his head, a quick jerking motion before he walks toward it. If it were anyone else, Mickey might have told him to fuck off and stop messing around but this is Ian. This is different. Mickey lets Ian tug him toward the secluded spot until they’re both shaded by the overhead building, their boots splashing in mismatched puddles of water on the concrete. 

It’s just an alley — all brick and grime. There’s a dumpster off to one side, a couple of loose trash bags and a trash can that smells like it once hosted a good old fashioned homeless bonfire. The moon hangs high overhead, casting a faint glow into the narrow space and it cascades over Ian’s face. It illuminates his features and enhances his stare, a brief twinkle in the pale green of his eyes. 

“Just wanted to be alone for a second.”

“For what?” Mickey asks dumbly.

“I haven’t given you your present yet.”

Mickey’s brow furrows and he chuckles, pretty sure Ian is just fucking with him. “Was the whole fucking skate rink shit not it? You gonna throw me a parade too?”

Ian laughs but his vocal chords are trembling, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat erratically. It’s obvious what it is, even Mickey with all his confusion and naivety, can see what this is. 

“I would if I knew it’d make you smile.”

There he goes again, saying things he shouldn’t be saying. Words that can only be misconstrued and twisted but there’s no one around. No one can hear him but Mickey. Those words are reserved solely for Mickey. 

Whatever Mickey wants to say gets twisted up in the journey toward his mouth and he falls silent, resting his back against the cool brick. Ian creeps in slowly, his taller form shadowing Mickey and his throat closes up at the proximity. 

“It’s okay, Mickey.”

But is it? Is it okay? Would it be okay? It isn’t just about crossing lines anymore. It’s about tearing down the delicate construct of Mickey’s entire life, throwing out the very thin veil of protection he tried to be and who he was. It was discovering a man that Mickey barely knew existed inside of him and letting him out, letting him fucking exist no matter the consequences. 

“You don’t know that,” Mickey mutters, shaking his head with a weakened sort of half smile. 

“Yeah, I do.” Ian moves again and both of them swallow thickly, their throats clenching at the same time. “We have nothing to be ashamed of.”

The implications are no longer just implications. They aren’t puzzles that Mickey lost the pieces to. When Ian speaks, Mickey knows exactly what he means. It’s an unspoken clarity they found days prior but Ian is the only one of them strong enough to breathe it into existence. To put the pieces together. 

“What kind of fucking world do you live in?” Mickey bites back at him but it doesn’t come off as strongly as he might have wanted. It’s too late to scare Ian off now. 

Ian just chuckles at first but it’s so low and deep that it brings goosebumps to Mickey’s arms. Even in the fading heat of the end of summer, Mickey can’t stop himself from shivering over a laugh, a smile, a glance. Maybe he has gone soft. Maybe his dad was right about him. 

“The kind where I’m Ian and you’re Mickey and that’s all we have to be.”

A dream world. A false reality. It can’t be that easy but Mickey wants it to be. He wants it so fucking badly. 

Ian comes closer still, until he’s invading Mickey’s space and it’s on instinct that he looks toward the entrance to the alley way, seeing nothing there but empty street. No one coming after him, no threat around the corner. One moment of peace and if one moment is all he can have then maybe it can last him a lifetime. 

One of Ian’s hands comes up his shoulder, gliding over the crook of Mickey’s neck until it circles around to the back. His thumb brushes up under Mickey’s ear and the calloused pad drags along the edge of his jawline slowly and deliberately. It’s so damn gentle, like Ian thinks that Mickey might break under his touch but Mickey never wanted to be touched more than in this moment. Not by anyone.

It crosses Mickey’s mind that he can stop him, that he can still turn back and forget all of it. He can forget about this feeling, these moments, pack them up to never be revisited again but he won’t. He can’t. Mickey’s eyes meet Ian’s and he sees the world in them — the possibilities that never seemed real.

And Mickey decides in that moment that maybe hope isn’t overrated just yet. 

The tips of their boots knock against each other, their bodies getting closer and closer until Ian is taking over his senses, making every part of Mickey melt against him. It’s slow moving, the lightest brush of Ian’s nose against his cheek and Mickey can swear that his heart has never been this alive. 

He’s never been alive until now. 

Ian’s lips touch his and the game is over. It’s gentle, soft skin barely pressing into Mickey’s bottom lip and every bit of electricity he thought he felt before is ten times stronger. His chest blooms into a thunderstorm, lights dancing behind his eyes as Ian presses closer — his hand moving to clutch Mickey’s waist. 

Nothing about it is heated or rushed, both of them taking their time to map out how the other’s lips feel, the lightest of stubble brushing against Mickey’s jaw. He’s kissed women before, at least three but none of those times ever felt like this. Just the mingling of his breath with Ian’s is leagues above everything and everyone and Mickey wants this to be the moment they get stuck in. He chooses this one to be the one he gets stuck in forever. 

Slowly, Ian pulls back and he runs his hand along Mickey’s side, bumping his nose with him as they take in each other’s air. It’s everything Mickey fears, everything he’s been trying to run away from but now that it’s here, he doesn’t want to stop. Mickey’s hand curls into the worn fabric of Ian’s t-shirt and he pulls him back in, taking what he wants by the reins. He presses their lips together again and it’s far from the days where Mickey could barely stand too close to Ian.

2,015 miles from Los Angeles to Chicago. 26 years and two months until this moment.

It’s more overwhelming than Mickey’s realization. More overpowering than drowning, more explosive than a gunshot to the chest. It’s powerful and weakening, it’s enough to turn his heart into a steady beating drum that wracks against his rib cage. It’s everything and nothing. It’s more than Mickey can handle but not enough at the same time. 

When Ian’s lips touch his, everything suddenly comes into focus and Mickey realizes one very important thing. He hasn’t been the same man since he met Ian. 

He’ll never be the same man again. 

And as soon as he grasps it, the moment is over and a loud sound echoes through the alleyway walls from the outside. 

“Mickey! Mickey, Mick, Mick. Mr. Birthday Boy. Where’d you go?” Sandy’s voice echoes from somewhere in the distance, every word coming out as slurred babbling. 

In an instant, Mickey’s instinct kicks into high gear, pushing Ian off of him with a firm hand to his chest. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and the fear is back, changing the exhilarated thumping of his heart back into nervous panic. Ian stands there just as frozen but he simply clears his throat, smoothing out his shirt before peeking his head out of the alleyway. 

There’s no discussion. No time to talk. No time to put a nice little bow on something so fucking complicated. 

Mickey hears footsteps approaching and he breathes deeply, trying to get his pulse back to a normal rate. He brushes past Ian with only a brief glance, flipping his switch to the Mickey that they know. The Mickey that doesn’t have anything to hide. 

“There you are!” Sandy perks up as she stumbles along the sidewalk, her hair halfway in her face. Just behind her is Debbie, attempting to get her to stop flailing while the other Gallaghers bring up the rear. They’re exactly as they left them not even ten minutes ago except now Sean is practically carrying Lip — one arm circled just under the man’s armpits. 

“He okay?” The sound of Ian’s voice makes Mickey jump and he tells himself not to focus on how hoarse it sounds. 

“Seventh round really caught up to him,” Sean answers, sighing dejectedly. 

“You look so pink, Mick.” Sandy slaps a hand on Mickey’s cheek, touching the remnants of warmth that Ian left behind. 

He’s been kissed by a man. He kissed a man and none of it feels real. It’s as if it happened on another plane of existence, to some Mickey in another world that’s happy and carefree — another Mickey who has it easy. Mickey deflects quickly, his lips tingling as he speaks. “You’re fucking drunk.” 

“It’s a party. Your party, asshole.”

Sean being the voice of reason interjects, handing Lip off to Fiona who easily holds her brother upright. “Alright, alright. Here’s the plan. Debbie takes the Gallaghers home and I’ve got the Milkoviches. Sound good to everyone?” 

Fiona leans in even with Lip on her arm and gives Sean a firm kiss on the cheek. “Works for me. Thanks.”

“Yeah. Thanks, boss,” Mickey adds on, catching Sandy out of the corner of his eyes. The fact that she’s still upright and bothering Debbie is nothing short of a miracle. 

“Least I can do.” 

The group split off then with the Gallaghers all heading with Fiona toward one side of the parking lot and the Milkoviches plus Sean heading to the other. They all give Mickey one more hearty round of well wishes and Sean gathers Sandy in much the way he held Lip, starting to lead her to the car. 

“Coming, kid?”

Ian and Mickey are the only two left in the middle as Sean calls out, everyone else already retreating back to their homes, back to their realities. But to Mickey, it still isn’t real. Maybe it won’t be real for a long while but his nerve endings are still lit, buzzing under his skin. Mickey watches Ian for a long moment, unable to stop his eyes from drifting to full pink lips — lips that he’s kissed. Lips that have kissed him. Ian smiles at him and even in the pale yellow streetlights, Mickey is sure he catches Ian blushing. 

“Happy birthday, Mickey,” Ian tells him softly, and the urge to touch each other is there. It lingers in the dense cloud of unanswered questions that swells around them. For all the answers they strive for, now there are infinitely more to search for but even knowing that, Mickey’s fear hasn’t caught back up. No, he’s living in the moment until he can’t do it anymore.

Ian gives him one more look, just as Fiona calls his name and Mickey is left to stare longingly at his retreating form while Sean points out the time on his wristwatch. “12:01, on the dot. Good birthday, kid?” 

Yeah. Maybe the best one Mickey has ever had. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there we have it! Things are going to get a little bit bumpy from here but I promise you I have big plans that I think you'll all really enjoy. Thank you for sticking with me for this. We've reached not only the halfway point but 100k word count and I'm thankful to all of you for reading my little story. Hopefully I'll see you next week with chapter 16. 
> 
> come talk to me at:  
> [@s11mikhailo](https://twitter.com/s11mikhailo) \- twitter // [xgoldendays](https://xgoldendays.tumblr.com) \- tumblr //  
> [s11mikhailo](https://curiouscat.qa/s11mikhailo) \- curiouscat


	16. If You Could Read My Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And again I come to you with apologies. It's taken me quite a while to update but that's just how it is sometimes, you know? I appreciate every single one of you that's still reading and commenting and supporting because I'm in this for the long haul. This story will see its end, no matter what. This one caught me in a rough patch but we're getting through it day by day. I hope you all enjoy and as always, please let me know what you think!
> 
> thank you to these two angels who have put up with me being nothing but a pain: [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse) and [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor)

When the sun rolls in bright and early on August 11th at 9AM on the dot, Mickey is fully convinced he dreamt the whole thing. 

Nothing is different at first. The same sun filters through the gaps in his curtains and casts intrusive light over his face and chest, the same mattress squeaks under his body weight when he shifts, the same waft of recycled water coming from his bathroom. It’s all average, normal, exactly what he expects but when Mickey opens his eyes and comes face to face with his ceiling—something isn’t the same. When he rubs at his eyes, comes to and blinks against the morning glare—something inside Mickey has changed.

No, something inside of Mickey isn’t quite the same.

It’s still there when he gets up, swings over the side of the couch and shuffles blindly to the bedroom where his cousin is sleeping soundly. The night before is blur, a rush of thoughts behind his eyelids and none of them have caught up with him just yet. Mickey sees Sandy bundled up in his sheets, the off white fabric only half on her body while she snores and he chuckles sleepily, still rubbing at his eyes as he walks into the bathroom. 

It doesn’t hit him until he sees his reflection in the mirror and even the man in front of him is almost unrecognizable at first glance. He can’t pinpoint it exactly but he seems—brighter, more energized, a flicker of life behind his usual blank or angry stare. The bags under his eyes aren’t as prominent and his skin is flushed a light shade of pink that he’s sure has been there the whole night. He stares at himself, stares at the man watching him from the other side of the glass and then Mickey realizes. He knows why everything feels different. 

Mickey exhales shakily and turns the water on with one hand, letting the cold water run before splashing a handful into his face to bring himself back to reality. With Sandy just outside the door, it feels like he shouldn’t be thinking, shouldn’t be replaying the damn kiss on a constant loop but it’s in there, it’s embedded into the forefront of his memory and Mickey feels like a damn schoolgirl obsessing over something people do all the time. People kiss all the time. It’s just a kiss—except when it isn’t. 

Leaning over the side of the sink, Mickey takes several deep breaths to calm himself but he still jumps when he hears Sandy’s light snoring turn into huffing which turns into groaning and several squeaks of Mickey’s old mattress. He’s tempted to ignore the sound and hide in the confines of his bathroom until his heart calms down or the thoughts of Ian Gallagher fall out of his brain but both of those options seem highly unlikely. 

Mickey walks out after a beat and he catches his cousin shuffling in the sheets, something about the sight making him laugh. “About time you woke up,” Mickey teases her as he yanks the covers away from Sandy’s head, causing her to groan even louder. 

A whine leaves her lips and she slaps a hand over her eyes to shield them from the light. “It’s too early.”

“I got shit to do,” Mickey says as he goes to the curtains, moving them aside with a tone that borders on pleased. 

Sandy sits up reluctantly, her hair severely out of place and she flings one of his pillows on the ground in protest. “What kind of guy wakes up early on the day after his birthday party? You’re sick.”

“Can’t sleep. Thought I might check on Lip, see if he’s still alive.”

Was it a distraction? Something to take his mind off Ian? Maybe, but that didn’t mean Mickey didn’t care. He probably cared more than he’d ever be able to explain in detail. 

“Lip. Lip. Check on Lip. Your new best friend, I get it,” Sandy grumbles, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and she’s wobbly on her feet but stable enough that Mickey doesn’t go over to help her. 

“Stop talking out of your ass and I’ll make you breakfast.” Mickey steps toward the door, hanging back only to make sure Sandy doesn’t fall over. When she gives him the finger, he takes that as a good sign. “Pills are in the cabinet.”

He leaves her then and goes to the kitchen, grabbing random leftovers out of the fridge to see what could possibly make a reasonable breakfast. Weeks of cooking taught Mickey close to nothing more than working with what he has stashed, so a few eggs, bread, and stale bits of cereal were just going to have to do. 

Laying it all out, Mickey starts digging into a bowl of corn flakes and nearly expired milk while he waits for Sandy to drag herself out of the bathroom. Needless to say, when she does she kind of looks like shit, all pale skin and scowls. 

“Don’t say anything,” she barks at him before he can even swallow his bite of cereal, taking a spot at one of the stools near the counter. 

“Wasn’t going to.”

“Good to know your birthday took the stick out of your ass.” Sandy reaches for a slice of toast, taking small halfhearted bites and Mickey is thankful she isn’t looking at him otherwise she’d notice the way he nearly fumbles the bowl out of his hands. 

“Just in a good mood. So what?”

“So it’s new. Not saying it’s bad, just annoying.” She laughs slightly, joking enough that Mickey knows she’ll survive her newest hangover. 

They eat mostly in silence and Mickey fixes them both coffee—Sandy’s black and his with just a dash of alcohol as a kicker and everything settles, but only for a while. 

“Where’d you and Ian go off to?”

Mickey nearly chokes on a piece of toast, a burnt corner of it flying out of his mouth and onto the carpet. He sputters but holds back as much of his shock as he can, clearing his throat casually. Sandy does little other than blink at him, taking casual sips from her coffee mug with her legs up on the stool. 

“Don’t know what you mean.”

Sandy perks up a tiny bit and she’s staring holes into him, attempting to bore through his walls. “I don’t remember a lot from last night but I remember that.”

“You always remember shit wrong when you’re drunk,” he quickly combats, his mouth drawn into a thin line and he hopes his acting is convincing enough that she won’t push any further. 

“Just wondering, that’s all.” She takes another sip, hiding a very clear want to smile and she sets the mug down, getting up with more stability to the action than before. “Thanks for breakfast. I’m gonna shower because I’ve got ‘shit to do’ too.”

Sandy heads off to the bathroom with a smirk and Mickey curses her behind her back. Did they all remember that about last night? Did they all think that? Would they all ask Mickey the same question? He swears again and heads over to the couch while she’s gone, laying back against the cushions as some stupid commercials play on the screen. 

His skin vibrates with all the thoughts and Mickey wills it to stop for just a second. It was supposed to be easier now that he gave away a part of himself but without meaning to, his real self—the parts of himself that he hides—are coming out into the light or maybe that’s the paranoia. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. 

A car honk sounds out in the distance and that’s typical for this part of town, nothing abnormal about it at all but it startles Mickey enough that he gets up to go investigate. He abandons his mug on the coffee table before walking over to the front window, pulling back the curtains enough to see outside. 

It’s what he sees every day—a few kids running around, some cars traveling slowly up and down the street, and a garbage truck picking up abandoned bags in front of houses—but Mickey can’t stop his pulse from racing. His mind imagines Colin’s car pulling up down the road, all faded orange and rusted. He imagines them coming to his door, beating the truth out of him until he’s nothing but a forgotten corpse. Another sad casualty of the back of the yards. 

Mickey wishes he could stop the inevitable. 

Sandy’s voice pulls him firmly back to reality and there’s no car. His brothers aren’t there. Terry isn’t coming. “What are you looking at?” She asks him, her hand using a towel to dry out her hair. 

“Nothing.”

But Mickey doesn’t move from his spot at the window. He stays there for a good long while, watching that same empty stretch of road until he’s memorized every pebble and crack. They’ll come for him, he knows it, but why aren’t they here yet? What are they waiting for? It’s as if Mickey is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the knife dangling above his head to finally slice him in half but instead it hangs there, taunting him. 

He can’t tell Sandy what he’s been doing, the tangled web he’s gotten himself into because she’ll retreat into that motherly sense of protecting him when that’s the last thing he wants or needs. He’ll deal with it on his own like he always does. It’s nothing to Mickey, to take the blows, to roll with the punches as long as they’re okay. 

As long as they’re all okay. 

Mickey takes another long look out the driveway and he resigns himself to the sad fact that they’ll show up, he just won’t know when. Another patch of his life spent worrying about when his dad will come to kill him. It’s not surprising. In fact, it’s more of an inevitability than most things. 

Letting out a shaky breath, Mickey turns back to where Sandy is fiddling with the knobs on the stove. “Gonna burn the place down while I’m gone?” 

“I’m gonna clean up your shit if that’s what you mean and then I’ve got work. Who knows, maybe it’ll cure my hangover.”

“Sure it will.”

“Have fun with your best friend.”

The cousins flip each other off in unison and even the brief gesture is a sign of love between the two, showing exactly how in sync they actually are. Mickey shakes his head as he closes the door behind him with a click and he heads out, his gaze shifting from side to side in watch of the cars that happen to roll by on the street. 

Mickey’s managed to avoid the bike shop in the months he’d been friends with Lip and it was almost certainly on purpose. They’d talked about the place, surementioned it casually when Brad or whoever the fuck Lip worked with did something funny—but Mickey hadn’t ever actually gotten up the guts to go there. 

It was one thing to let Lip and the Gallagher clan into his life, form some kind of bond with people outside his family, but it was something else entirely to invite more and more strangers until Mickey believed that he had _people_ instead of just a handful of friends. Still, the aching bite of worry settles in Mickey’s stomach as he takes the L one stop over to the edge of the Southside that mingles with downtown. 

The name of the shop is vaguely in the back of his head and it only takes ten minutes of wandering before Mickey finds the right direction. He takes a couple of turns, passes by a hot dog cart on the corner and a nearby record shop before his surroundings start to fit the bill. It’s an average street, nothing miraculous about it at all but the smell of gasoline is prominent as he passes by a junkyard where the clanging of car metal rings in Mickey’s ears. 

Born Free Cycles is one of those typical dilapidated, broken down shops that are scattered around the Southside with its foggy windows and weeds growing out from the concrete. As Mickey approaches from the left, he can spot several men working on a handful of cycles though the view is obscured by the brown stains etched into the glass. It takes a second but Mickey catches a familiar sight through a clearer part of the window. There’s no doubting the hunched shoulders and messy mop of curls belong to Lip and from his vantage point, he can see the man is elbow deep in a Harley with grease coating his skin from forehead to wrist. 

It’s strange in a way, to see Lip like this. He’s a far cry from the teenager Mickey beat up and the man he now calls a friend. He can see it in the way Lip’s hands shake as he holds a wrench, trying his best to hold it up but he shivers when an engine in the background roars to life. His gaze flinches when a man puts a hand on his shoulder but he hides it quickly. Lip is just like Mickey—a professional at hiding. 

Mickey looks away from the window and moves toward the entrance, where the door is propped open with a stack of old newspapers that are browning around the edges. A radio is balanced on the counter and through the static, the voice of an announcer can be heard spewing the morning news. Otherwise, the shop is bustling with all kinds of noises—voices and motors, the clanging of steel against steel. 

He barely gets a chance to take in all the posters tattered on the walls before someone clears their throat just to his left, the man’s arm wiping clear across his forehead when Mickey turns around to face him. 

“You looking for something?” the man asks as he slings a rag over his right shoulder, one of his brows raised in question. He’s older, maybe a few years older than Mickey with a messy head of blond hair with a patchy beard to match. 

“Visiting,” Mickey answers back without hesitating, jerking his head in the direction of Lip. 

The guy laughs and he nods, using the horn on the bike he’s working on to get Lip’s attention. It takes a second, as if the horn barely breaks through Lip’s fog but eventually he does peer around the side of the engine, grease now coating the planes of his face. 

“Mickey?” It’s not said with as much surprise as it is amusement and Lip tosses his wrench into a toolbox just beside his foot with a dull clang. 

Even with every realization that Mickey has been bombarded with over the last few weeks, it still surprises him every time someone smiles when they see him, when someone is happy to see him. Mickey gets a stupid grin on his face as he looks Lip over, taking in his coveralls and his greasetrap appearance that would have given fifteen year old Mickey a run for his money. 

“You work here or they pay you to just show up?” Mickey questions Lip with a comfortable familiarity and the man next to him moves in closer as he wrings his hands. 

“Mostly to show up. He’s pretty easy on the eyes.” 

Lip lets out a dry laugh and motions between Mickey and the older man with a half cocked grin. “Mickey. Brad. Brad. Mickey.” 

The infamous Brad, the one Lip mentions in their conversations and talks to in hushed tones over the phone. That Brad.

“So you’re Mickey. Heard a few things.” Brad turns to face him, holding out his hand for a shake but when Mickey doesn’t take it right away, he reels back. “All good, man. Don’t worry about it.”

“Told him you might want a job.” Lip interjects. 

Mickey’s brow furrows and he shoves his hands in his pockets, slumping his body slightly to seem more at ease. “I got a job.”

“A new one.”

“I’m good.” Mickey looks up at Brad then, shrugging slightly to show he means no harm. “No offense.”

Brad waves a hand, scrunching up his face. “None taken.” He takes a second to peer at the clock, noting the time as the same hand idly runs through his beard. “Take fifteen. We’re not busy.”

Lip claps Brad once on the back and he dumps his used rag into a random bin nearby before leading Mickey through the shop. The other guys don’t pay them much mind, too focused on their work and the silence compared to Patsy’s is stark, miles away from loud customers and banging pans. 

They pass through a storage section where there’s everything from carburetors to motor oil, stacked up high on shelves and Lip slides open a back door, revealing an empty lot flanked by a neighboring building. Lip takes them a few more paces toward a small set of stairs leading to a padlocked door and he sits down on one step, leaving enough space for Mickey to squeeze in next to him. 

Naturally, a cigarette gets slid out of Lip’s shirt pocket, just beside the patch with his name embroidered on it. As Mickey sits down, he lights it and in the sun, Mickey catches that ever familiar shiver to Lip’s hands. 

“You telling people about me?” Mickey starts off, squinting as the light bears down on them. It’s light hearted, not accusatory, like it would be for most people. 

Lip chuckles before taking a long drag, letting the tobacco settle into his lungs. “Oh yeah, showing off that the Gallaghers tamed a Milkovich.”

“Fuck you, man,” Mickey bites, reaching out to take the cigarette right out of his fingers. “Diner’s working out alright.”

“Never said it wasn’t but gotta do something else eventually, right?” There’s a pause there, Lip’s own eyes becoming slits as he watches Mickey with a newfound bit of interest. “Ian would understand.”

Ian. Just his name has Mickey’s throat closing up and he coughs against the smoke uncharacteristically. “You think I give a shit just ‘cause I work with the guy?”

Lip presses his mouth closed, holding back something. “Just saying there’s more to life than flipping burgers.” 

Mickey hates that Lip is right. He hadn’t thought about his life after parole, never thought about his future—about what might exist outside of Patsy’s and minimum wage. Unlike Sandy though—who pesters him about thinking forward—when Lip says it, it’s because he knows. He knows what it’s like to start from scratch. 

It’s no question that Mickey is aware of how similar he and Lip are. Two friends—sad and lonely, filling in empty spaces in their lives with booze and drugs. They don’t sleep enough, don’t eat right, are plagued by the hauntings of their past. Lip won’t tell him but Mickey knows a few things too. He can see it behind those crystal blue eyes that are nearly the same shade as his. They fear the uncertainty of living so much more than they fear the certainty of death. 

The cigarette hangs between Lip’s fingers as he hands it back over to Mickey and when their fingers brush, he feels just how cold and clammy his skin is. It compels something in Mickey that he told himself he’d never unleash on Lip Gallagher. Worry. 

“You doing okay?”

There’s no response for a moment and Mickey thinks maybe he pushed it too far, delved into territory that their friendship doesn’t cover but Lip eventually speaks though with a much drier sarcasm attached. “I get a stipend from the Feds, work this job, go home, drink, do it all over again. What do you think?”

Mickey scoffs, not the least bit taken back by the response and his boot scuffs the gravel as he moves his leg up a step. “I think you should take it easy, man.”

Lip stays quiet again and when he takes the cigarette back from Mickey, his fingertips are shaking but subtly enough that he barely catches it. But it’s there, the thinnest veil of insecurity. He inhales deeply and through the fog, he’s staring straight ahead, Lip’s eyes focused on a patch of cracked paint on the opposite building. 

“It’s all I’ve got to drown out the noise,” he mutters, letting his hand fall to his knees as the ash falls into a clump on the ground. “I hear it all the fucking time. The noise.”

And Mickey doesn’t ask what he means because he doesn’t have to. Their situations aren’t the same and Mickey might never know what it was like in the trenches, how the taste of death feels going down but he hears it too. Maybe the noise that plagues both of their minds vibrates at different frequencies, thumps at different beats, shatters the inner workings of their brains at different volumes but they’ve both been fighting wars that might never see a victor. 

So Mickey doesn’t ask because he understands.

The pair don’t say much more than that, mostly because Mickey can’t find the right words. How is the guy with more problems than he can count, supposed to tell Lip what to do with his? So Mickey does the only thing he can do and he lets Lip feel.

When his friend asks him to go out with him and Brad later that afternoon, Mickey doesn’t say no. He sits across from the pair of them at Patsy’s, watching them argue over which slice of pie to get and when Lip slides a flask out of his jacket pocket it takes everything in Mickey to stay silent. 

They exchange a glance and for a second, Lip is still that kid from high school, the one everyone thought was going to make it. His eyes are soft but aging, a half lidded gaze being all that he offers these days. Lip pours the alcohol into his glass and that kid is gone again, lost behind a heavy dose of whiskey and a serving of apple pie. 

Maybe Lip is better at hiding than Mickey after all. 

— 

The sad part about alcohol is that it never serves to make Mickey forget. It masks everything, blurs it until it’s unrecognizable, but Mickey never forgets. So when he wakes up the next morning with his head pounding to high heaven, Mickey has had no luck in forgetting that it’s his first day back at work since his birthday. 

It’s been a day and a half since he’s seen Ian and Mickey paces for five minutes in front of his closet before remembering he wears a uniform to work. He nearly trips over his own two feet when he bites his own lip and fumbles trying to get his hair to sit properly on the top of his head. 

He doesn’t want to admit it but just the thought of seeing Ian makes him really fucking… _nervous_. Nervous. Nervous like a teenage girl at her school dance nervous. Palms sweating and his cheeks an obnoxious shade of pink nervous. 

It was one thing to be scared but nervous? No, being nervous means anticipation, exhilaration. It means that Mickey wants to see Ian so badly that his knees shake but just thinking about it makes him sick. It takes him an extra ten minutes to even psych himself up, swallow back the bile that threatens to bubble out and actually leave his apartment. Hell, even the trip to work is the longest ride of his life, the twenty minutes extending painfully and making Mickey’s muscles ache to the point that his blood rushes through his ears, turning everything into white noise. 

Call it stupid, call it hopeless, but Mickey still feels the tingle of Ian’s lips every time he presses his own together or when he runs his tongue over the skin, swearing that Ian’s taste is somehow etched into them. He feels cloudy, lightheaded but for this one single time, it’s not with fear. It’s just the nerves attacking him this time. This time, it’s with something new. Something Mickey hasn’t felt in a long time. 

This time, Mickey is sure it's with happiness. 

His cheeks burn with the added cherry on top of his already pretty shitty cake as the L comes to his stop and Mickey waits a beat before standing up, his legs practically jelly underneath him. Every single step feels like he’s floating on air but his heart is pounding frantically, unable to piece together how to be normal. It’s any other day but it isn’t at the same time. It isn’t because Ian isn’t just Ian anymore. He isn’t a guy he met on the road or a nuisance in his life. He’s Ian who Mickey wants to see. Ian who holds some kind of power over his emotions. Ian who Mickey has kissed. Normal just isn’t what this is anymore. 

The clock hanging above the coffee maker signals 7AM the second Mickey walks through the door of Patsy’s and he’s greeted with Fiona’s shiny grin as she passes by with a couple of plates in hand, rounding the corner to deliver it to a table by the window. 

“Welcome back,” Fiona tells him, cheery to the point of bursting and Mickey has an idea or two on what, or rather who, caused it.

He doesn’t mention it though as he raises a hand to greet her, chuckling awkwardly to himself as he passes some of the other women on his way to the back of the house. It’s only when Mickey crosses the threshold between the front of house and the back that his nerves kick in double time, nausea forming a tight ball in his throat. 

_Act normal, fucking idiot._

Mickey clears his throat and greets some of the guys who are already busy working at the grills but he doesn’t look at them directly. No, his eyes are diverting themselves behind them, scanning every section for any sign of a redhead who has single handedly thrown his world off its axis. 

He’s seemingly nowhere to be found with the quick scan and Mickey exhales slowly, turning to head into the back room. It’s a brief sense of relief but Mickey really should have known better. When he sees Ian leaning against his locker, casual in his faded gray Patsy’s uniform, the night of his birthday rushes back into the forefront of his memory and Mickey is overcome by thoughts of lips, hands, and skin. 

“Morning,” Ian says casually, his arms crossed over his chest as he eyes Mickey, a very soft hint of a smile playing across his lips. 

Mickey’s damn throat betrays him again, constricting so tightly that he’s sure he’ll suffocate and his voice comes out in a sick croak. “Yeah, morning.” He takes a step forward but Ian doesn’t move from his spot, taking Mickey by surprise. “You gonna move or what?”

And there it is, his feigning normalcy. 

Ian takes the cue and steps to the side but only by a fraction, leaving barely enough space for Mickey to squeeze in. It’s tempting to sucker punch him in the gut but the warmth coming from Ian’s body shuts him up enough that Ian gets the moment to speak. 

“I was kind of hoping we could talk.”

Mickey blinks, focusing all his attention on the corroded steel of his locker as he forces it open. “Now?”

“Now. Later. Whenever,” Ian tells him, swaying back and forth of his heels. His casual nature combats Mickey’s panic directly and it’s as if one game ended the moment their lips touched but a new one has just begun—the ball bouncing up and down on Mickey’s side of the court. 

“About what?” His own words make Mickey flinch and he busies himself by shoving his wallet and house keys into the bare space of his locker. 

“You know what.”

Ian is so close that Mickey can feel the fabric of his shirt brush up against his elbow when he moves, the rise and fall of his chest when he speaks. 

“Later.”

Something in Mickey expects a witty response, some annoying turn of phrase that will only irritate him further but he’s taken aback by Ian actually says. 

“I can wait.” Ian steps away then, finishing tying off the apron that hangs loose around his waist but he watches Mickey while he does it. If he didn’t know better, Mickey might have called it fond or something much scarier than that. Before Mickey can add anything in, Ian tacks on something of his own. “Have I ever told you pink is a great color on you?”

And that’s what Mickey was expecting. He slams his locker door shut and bumps Ian out of the way with his shoulder, ignoring how the simple compliment goes straight to his brain.

“Fuck off.”

Ian laughs, bright and clear as he follows in Mickey’s wake back into the kitchen. It’s the same as every morning with the pair of them standing side by side in front of the grills, bumping shoulders and wiping sweat on the back of their hands but this time, Mickey is even more hyper aware of every time they touch. 

Maybe it’s his constant overthinking but he swears the asshole is doing it on purpose. 

Four orders of pancakes get called out to the back and Mickey reaches for an extra spatula, only to be met with Ian’s hand on the small of his back. He guides him out of the way to grab a spatula of his own, an idiot smirk on his face when they make eye contact. He does it again when they’re plating, both of them reaching for the same dish at the same time until their hands are overlapping, Ian’s much larger one enveloping Mickey’s. On instinct, Mickey jerks back and elbows Ian in the chest, causing him to cough and drop the plate onto the steel counter with a clatter. 

The kitchen becomes nearly unbearable but thankfully when Mickey looks up to check the clock, it’s already break time and he’s tossing his spatula into the sink before Fiona can even get the words out of her mouth. 

“O-kay, someone’s ready for break.” Fiona watches, bemused, eyes darting between the two of them as if trying to figure out the puzzle that’s newly formed in front of her. “Ian, you go too. We’re slow anyway.”

Mickey hides the crawl that goes up his spine and just tells one of the guys to make his usual before darting out toward his regular booth. This is the point of the game where Mickey has the chance to serve, make a move of his own but for the first time, his hand is wary at the trigger. One wrong move and he’ll lose. One wrong move and everything would crumble into pieces too small to be put back together. 

Ian is still hanging out back when Mickey gets his food, mindlessly poking the toothpick into his bread instead of eating it. The bravery he had in that alley takes its sweet time catching up to him, walking at a fucking snail’s pace now that they’re in the real world. 

He can’t rationalize how people like his dad can exist in the same world as people like Ian, people like the Gallaghers. He can’t figure out why this feeling that scares him but makes him feel so fucking alive, is apparently wrong. Nothing about how he feels about Ian feels wrong. 

Ian walks out from the back, balancing a plate in his arms as well as a new copy of Rolling Stone. He looks around the place until his eyes fall on Mickey and they watch each other, silently trying to figure out what to do next. The funny part is Mickey still has no idea, might never know as long as his dad’s breath blows furiously at the back of his neck. But his dad isn’t here and if Mickey wants an inch in the meantime, he’s going to take it.

“Gallagher.” Mickey jerks his head to the empty space in front of him on the other side of the booth and it’s the only gesture he can offer. It’s the only hand he can deal, the only safe serve he can make into Ian’s court. “Ian. You gonna sit down or what?”

Ian’s eyes light up and something inside Mickey swells to the point of bursting. He makes his way over, sliding into the booth but not without knocking his knees into Mickey’s as he does so. “Is it later?”

A damn smile creeps onto Mickey’s lips and he snatches the magazine out of Ian’s hand, hoping that he can hold onto this patch of bravery for as long as he can. “No.”

“Hypothetically speaking, how much longer would you say later is?” Ian hums before taking a huge bite of his sandwich, some of the crumbs getting stuck in the stubble along his jawline. 

Mickey can’t tell if he wants to punch him or pull him closer and he breathes deeply as the combatting emotions let themselves meet for the first time. 

“You can shut up or I can kick your ass out of this booth.”

Ian holds back a shit eating grin but he manages to stay silent for the next twenty minutes, only casually eating his sandwich and bumping his boot along the side of Mickey’s leg like it’s nothing. They don’t talk, don’t even clear their throats or sneeze but Mickey can feel something resolving itself. Maybe not entirely but invisible answers to unknown questions pass through them in the empty air and Mickey knows that Ian can feel it. 

He knows what Mickey wants. 

The clock chimes at the top of the hour not long after and Mickey gets up, his hand reaching for his plate but it’s swooped out from under him. Ian gathers it on top of his own plate with that same grin from before and Mickey holds back the urge to audibly growl.

 _Polite fucker_. He thinks to himself. 

Ian catches the annoyance and he laughs, the first noise he’s made in over half an hour but he doesn’t speak, only gesturing for Mickey to go ahead of him with one swoop of his hand. He lets out a huff and jabs Ian once in the chest for good measure but still stomps ahead first, ignoring Fiona at the counter and the intent stare she’s giving the two of them. 

Turning the corner, Mickey finds the bin of aprons and grabs one off the top just as Ian brings up the rear. He drops their plates into the sink, leaving the two of them enough room to be cornered by Fiona as she makes her way back. 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t invite him,” she accuses, leaning against the wall and tapping her pin against her blank notepad. 

Invite him? To what? 

Ian glances up from the plates, bubbles up to his elbows and he’s suddenly more shy than before, a hue of pink washing over his cheeks. “It didn’t come up.”

“Well, I’m inviting him then.”

“To what?” Mickey finally manages to get out, his hands occupied with tying his apron up. 

Fiona throws Ian a look that Mickey can’t pinpoint before facing Mickey, her wide smile only a tiny bit scary. “Gallagher family pool party.” She clarifies. “It’s not much but Sean cleared out the above ground pool so we might as well get all we can out of it before summer ends.”

Mickey blanks at the word ‘pool’, briefly thinking back to the closest equivalent he has—the time his brothers nearly drowned him in the public pool when he was twelve. “Don’t really… swim,” he tells her, thinking it’s the easiest excuse in the book. 

Either way, Fiona pays no mind to it and clicks her teeth while she turns the corner. “Uh huh. Starts at six, don’t be late. Bring Sandy!” she calls out before completely disappearing, leaving Ian and Mickey alone in the back yet again. 

As soon as Fiona is out of ear shot, Mickey fixes Ian with the glare he’s been holding back all day, flaring nostrils included. 

All Ian manages is to bat those damn eyes, turning the innocent act up to a hundred. “What? You told me to shut up.” He chuckles, dropping the plates and shaking out his hands as he takes several large steps closer to Mickey. “So you’ll come?”

Mickey backs up a bit so he’s mostly covered by the wall between the kitchen and the back room but Ian slowly follows him, encroaching on his space. It’s nothing, it should be nothing, but Mickey still croaks out his words in response. “I guess.”

A step, another step, two more steps and Ian is barely half a foot away from him, his eyes cast downward. “Good.” He says in this lower register, maybe to keep the others from overhearing or maybe just to be an asshole, Mickey isn’t quite sure. It sends shivers down his spine just the same and instantly the ball is back in Mickey’s court. 

“Maybe that’ll be late enough for you,” Ian mutters, waiting a beat before peering over his shoulder toward the kitchen. There’s nothing else he can do and Mickey knows Ian wouldn’t try it—not here—but that doesn’t mean the urge doesn’t hit in the back of Mickey’s head. 

Ian leaves him there without another word and Mickey’s heart flips in his chest, doing vicious somersaults that leave him frozen in place. If anything is for damn sure, clear as day in Mickey’s mind, it’s that if Ian Gallagher doesn’t kill him, he’ll certainly bring him pretty damn close. 

— 

That Saturday, the heat in the inner sections of Chicago reaches an all time high and as Mickey sits in the passenger’s seat of Sandy’s Camaro, he can feel sweat beading at the nape of his neck and sliding down his back in hot streaks. He’s been barbecuing himself alive while Sandy fiddles under the hood, swearing to herself as she slams the steel back into place. 

“I swear this piece of shit is gonna die on me any day,” Sandy puffs out as she wipes sweat from behind her neck, her other hand balanced on the hood. 

Mickey rests his head against the side of the car, calling out of the cracked open windshield, “Told you I’d help you get it fixed.”

His cousin had been driving the same old beat up, hand me down car for as long as he could remember and even though Mickey barely came up with money for rent half the time, he thought about getting Sandy something new, something she deserved. Maybe then the debt between them would be repaid. 

“I’m not taking your money, Mick,” she mumbles, rolling her eyes as she leaves the front of the car and slides back into the driver’s seat with a much more disheveled look than before. 

This whole thing was her idea, going to the Gallaghers. Mickey told her at least twelve times that he didn’t want to go, couldn’t swim, didn’t want to hear the Gallagher children scream at the top of their lungs while they splash shitty Southside water into his mouth but she didn’t give a single shit. It just so happened that he left out the part about seeing Ian but that wasn’t important. It wasn’t. In the end, Sandy literally bent his arm until he agreed, putting on something close to reasonable to head out to a damn pool party in the middle of summer. 

“Then don’t fucking complain,” Mickey throws back at her, resting his head against the back of the seat, his whole body turning into a faint shade of red from the scalding heat. 

“Oh, like you’ve been doing for the last hour?” Sandy starts the car and it takes a few good attempts for the engine to churn to life, a cloud of black smoke expelling from the muffler and enveloping the car in a bitter stench. She pulls back onto the street, taking the first left as a shortcut to the Gallaghers and Mickey turns the radio up a few steps, enough to drown out the engine rumbling. 

“I don’t even want to go to this shit,” Mickey reminds her for the twentieth time, tugging on his collar once to let some of the heat out. Sandy just rolls her eyes, something of a determined expression making her look older than Mickey for a moment. 

“Yes you do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

The bickering continues for the whole ride until the two are shoving each other back and forth with one hand, slap fighting like they did when they were kids. He’s distracted enough that he doesn’t notice Sandy pulling along a street only a block away from the Milkovich house and he goes pale white in a second. 

His heart picks up speed and he angles his body lower in the seat, only leaving enough space so he can see what cars are lined up along the road. The image repeats itself over and over—that damn Ford Torino doing circles in his brain. He knows the paranoia is getting to him but he knows it’s not going to be this easy, as much as he might want it to be. 

They won’t let him go this easily. 

They turn the corner toward Homan and Mickey exhales, sitting back up normally. Sandy didn’t seem to notice as she hums to herself, tapping little thumps into the steering wheel. It’s enough to give Mickey enough room to breathe but then Sandy lands a blow onto the side of Mickey’s temple and he doesn’t have a chance to counter before she slams on the brakes, smiling in an instant as she shoves him one more time. 

“Keep bitching in front of Ian and see what happens.”

Why did everyone always have to bring Ian into it? As if Ian could stop him from complaining, as if Ian was his reason for coming out of his shell. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t _wrong_ but something about Sandy’s tone makes him want to question her, ask her what she knows. He doesn’t get the chance because his cousin practically flies out of the car and when Mickey turns his head, he sees Debbie at the top of the stairs, Franny balancing on her hip. 

Typical. 

Mickey begrudgingly gets out after her and he goes to go up the stairs when he hears Lip’s voice calling out to him from the yard. 

“I think it’s girls only.” Balanced in Lip’s hand is a beer and undoubtedly not the first one of the day but Mickey makes a point not to mention it. 

“Wasn’t gonna come,” Mickey says, walking over to him with one hand flinging the sweat off the back of his neck. 

“But you did.” Lip smirks at him as Mickey peers into the backyard where a decent sized pool is being adjusted by Sean, Fiona flanking him on the left side. 

She notices the pair of them and waves a hand in the direction though her gaze falls to Mickey, more specifically his clothing. Going swimming was definitely not on Mickey’s to do list out of prison so getting the right clothes for it never happened to come up. 

“Do you not have swim clothes?” Fiona asks with a giggle, her hands settled on her hips. She looks down in amusement and calls up the backstairs, her voice booming through the lot. “Ian! Take Mickey upstairs and let him borrow something of yours.”

Out of nowhere, Ian’s head pops out of the back door and Mickey is stunned into silence. Ian is standing there, bare chested, wearing maybe the tiniest pair of swim shorts known to man and Mickey swallows back a golf ball sized lump in his throat. There must be something criminal about being built like Ian and Mickey grits his teeth to avoid looking at the red hair going all the way down to Ian’s navel. 

Ian looks stunned for a second but when he makes eye contact with Mickey, it turns into a smile that paired with everything else only serves to make him angry. Criminal. Definitely. Lip pats Mickey on the back and he reluctantly follows Ian up the stairs toward the boys room. It dawns on Mickey that he’s never been up there, never seen more of the Gallagher house besides the kitchen and the yard. 

It’s oddly personal when he really thinks about it but it’s too late to go back now. They head into the last room at the end of the hall and Mickey instantly registers which side is Ian’s. Old band posters and magazine cut outs litter his walls while books are stacked underneath his mattress in haphazard clumps. It’s messy and disorganized but it’s exactly what Mickey expected. 

Ian heads over to a nearby dresser and Mickey quickly diverts his eyes, studying a Ramones poster very intently instead of looking anywhere near him. Ian fiddles into the drawer for a moment before pulling out a bigger pair of shorts, holding them loosely in his grip. “I figure you’re more of a trunks kind of guy. Lip won’t care if you borrow something of his.”

“Sure, yeah,” Mickey half stutters out, clearing his throat as he reaches for the article of clothing. 

The only thing is Ian doesn’t let go, he holds firm on the fabric and uses the leverage to tug Mickey closer to him. “And I figured we could talk.”

It takes all his concentration not to stumble right into Ian’s chest but his elbow knocks his rib, touching his smooth skin for just a second. It sends Mickey’s senses through the ringer and he can’t hold back the bark that rumbles out of his chest. “What happened to being fucking patient?”

“I just want to know, Mickey.” 

“Know what?” Mickey spits, all of his frustration coming out all at once. The way Ian looks, how he feels, how he smells. It’s too fucking much. 

Ian’s breathing is faster than usual and it puffs close to Mickey’s face, only making him more lightheaded. “What we’re doing here,” Ian tells him directly, not loosening his grip but then again, neither does Mickey. 

“You can’t ask me that.” 

They stare each other down and what passes through them is more fiery than just simple lust. It’s backed by anger at not knowing, irritation at Ian’s pushing, fury at Mickey’s stubbornness. 

“Why the fuck not?”

Just down the hall, a familiar voice comes breaking through their tension like a dull knife. Sandy. “Hello! What the hell are you doing in there?”

Mickey can’t decide whether to kill her or hug her but Ian is clearly more murderous as he lets out a low rumbling huff. He backs up then and hands the swim trunks over to Mickey, who nearly drops them. 

“Later, okay? Later.” It’s mostly to placate him because Mickey can’t have this conversation now. He can’t give Ian an answer with half the family breathing down their neck. 

Sandy barks their names out from downstairs this time and Mickey leans out of the room to holler back at her, his hand curling around the trunks so hard that they might tear. “We’re coming! Jesus Christ!”

Once the coast is clear and Sandy’s voice goes a full minute without calling out to them again, Mickey turns back to Ian. He’s calmer now, just standing there scratching the back of his neck. 

“Tomorrow?” Ian asks him hopefully, taking a stride and a half toward the door. 

Mickey doesn’t know if he’ll be ready tomorrow but he knows Ian won’t stop being “patient” until he gets some kind of clear response. “Fine.”

Ian nods, seemingly placated by that if his body language is anything to go by. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

He brushes past Mickey silently and it’s when he’s gone that Mickey actually gets a second to fill his lungs. The trunks end up fitting decently but he keeps his shirt on, knowing that anything underneath it is not a story for this day. 

After that, the day isn’t half bad. Maybe it’s actually kind of fun and the feeling from his birthday party extends into being more than just a one-off. Sandy has to wrestle him into the pool, offering to get some floaters when he sputters out fire hydrant water in her face. It’s stupid and childish but it’s _fun_. Eventually Debbie comes to save the day, helping Franny into the water and the little girl for some strange reason floats right over to Mickey. 

Thankfully, Mickey’s feet touch the bottom of the pool so he extends his hand to Franny, helping her stay afloat while the rest of the Gallagher clan squeezes their way into the pool. It’s not much but Mickey can’t recall the last time he’d been near a kid without scaring them half to death. Ian swims over to them, his hair wet and slicked back and Mickey is too stunned to speak, let alone make any sort of joke at the situation. 

He lets Ian take Franny from him and promptly ignores the way Ian’s broad chest looks with water sliding down his muscles, only further emphasized by the sunlight the glints down on them. It’s a sight he wasn’t prepared for and without thinking, his mouth falls open, a perfect target for Lip who launches a handful of water into the open territory. 

“Fuck you!” Mickey yells at him and he throws a handful of water back, nearly missing Franny and Ian. 

They all burst into laughter and a few minutes in the water turns into an hour before Mickey is too exhausted to keep up the energy of the Gallaghers. He jumps out of the side of the pool, much to the disappointed calls of the others, and grabs a beer out of a nearby cooler. He opens it with a swift shift of his fingers and he falls back onto a lawn chair with a wet thud. 

Just beside him in a chair of her own is Fiona, her eyes covered by a pair of large sunglasses. “Good day?” she asks, a beer bottle balanced on the armrest farthest away from Mickey. 

“It’s alright,” he boldly lies and he brings his own beer up to his lips for a couple of swigs that feel like heaven going down. 

Fiona is the one Gallagher Mickey knows the least, despite actually working for her. All he knows is what he’s heard from the others, what he sees at work and it’s all culminated in a deep respect for the woman but he doesn’t know her—not like that. 

“Looks like you fit in pretty nicely,” Fiona admits to him as she turns her head to face him, a very muted smile on her lips. 

“Like a sore fucking thumb.”

“I don’t know about that.” Fiona glances away from him again and Mickey follows her gaze until it falls on the group still in the pool, as lively as ever. “I wanted to say thank you.”

Mickey’s beer is halfway to his mouth and he chokes a little, blinking as if he didn’t hear her correctly. “For what?”

“For being good at the diner, for one,” Fiona says, every word coming out relaxed in between sips of her beer. “And I don’t know, it’s been a while since my brothers have had anyone other than each other so…thank you.”

Mickey’s brows furrow and he can’t think of one thing he’s done to benefit the Gallaghers. Not one single thing but Fiona wouldn’t say it if she didn’t mean it. “Didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah well, tell that to them.” Fiona gets up as she finishes her sentence, lightly clinking her bottle with Mickey before going over to where Sean is helping Liam out of the pool. 

Just behind her shoulder, Mickey catches sight of Lip and Ian having a splash fight with their niece and Carl coming from behind to lift her up, carrying her on his shoulders. Water splashes onto the dry patches of grass as Lip ducks Ian under the water, the brothers wrestling for dominance while Debbie barks at them to be careful with Franny. Sandy manages to hold her back with an outstretched drink and they end up laughing, poking each other in the ribs. They don’t notice him watching but Mickey thinks about what Fiona says and another realization comes into mingle with everything else. 

In between all the mess, all of the pain and addiction and uncertainty, Mickey found something he truly wasn’t expecting. Right alongside Ian who bulldozed his way into Mickey’s life, a family did as well. 

A family that maybe Mickey could call his own too. 

— 

Sunday isn’t much to talk about. It’s only been a week since his birthday, since everything was thrown into a spiral and it feels like a hundred years have passed. Mickey feels like he’s lived a thousand lives, experienced more than any one person should alongside the whirlwind of emotions that come along with it. It’s nothing he can pack up in nice little boxes, tie off with a bow and put away. 

No, his entire day off is spent watching, waiting, looking, and pacing. Mickey knows his dad, he knows his siblings and Milkoviches react one of two ways. They launch headfirst, using their guts as guidance to attack their enemies or they bide their time, waiting in the wings until they can find that singular weak spot that will bring someone down in an instant. 

Mickey knows he’s the latter. They’re burrowing him deeper and deeper into a corner and Mickey is powerless to stop it. He feels them looming in every corner, feels the ghosts of their fists cracking into his bones but it’s not the pain that he’s scared of. It’s the power they have to take it all away from him. It was exactly why Mickey avoided his family like the plague, spent time mapping out ways to never drive past the Milkovich house. He doesn’t want them to take this away. 

And when they come, Mickey will have to choose whether to give up or to fight back. If he’ll be the victim of his dad’s continued tyranny over his life or if he maybe he’ll finally be his own hero for once. 

Mickey eventually stops pacing and falls back against the lumps in the couch, one hand over his eyes as he balances a beer in one hand. The condensation rolls down his hand and over his wrist, leaving a wet mark on the black fabric of his t-shirt. He manages to get his breathing to even out, falling in sync with the music playing on the radio next to his head. 

It breaks though when a knock comes at his door and Mickey sits upright in an instant, spilling his beer halfway down the front of his shirt and into the carpet. “Fuck,” he calls out in alarm, getting up and shaking out his shirt as he slams the now empty bottle into the counter. 

Another knock comes and Mickey stares at the worn out wood of his front door with the hopeless thought that hopefully it was enough to hold them back. He thinks about grabbing a handful of towels but his fight response sends him toward the door, opening it without removing the chain. The cool air of the night comes crawling into his apartment and Mickey expects to meet the cold gaze of his dad, of Colin or Joey but it’s not any of them. Instead Mickey is face to face with Ian, his face illuminated by the singular streetlight on the corner. 

“Hey. Can I come in?” Ian shifts in place, his teeth gnawing on his bottom lip as he says it. 

Mickey thinks, actually takes a second to wrap his head around Ian being there but he can’t come up with a good reason to say no especially after he remembers that he agreed to this in the first place. “Yeah,” he answers, stepping aside enough that Ian can pass through. 

They’ve done this song and dance before, conversations that start out awkwardly until one of them clears their air but Mickey has lost track of who has the ball this time. 

Thankfully Ian starts speaking first, finding a spot by the counter to lean against. It’s strange how at home he seems, like he belongs there. “You got a beer?”

Mickey closes the door behind him and nods, going over to the fridge and pulling two beers out of a brand new six pack he bought. He cracks one open and slides it over to Ian before doing the same to his own. “What do you want?”

There’s barely any space between them as Mickey gravitates closer to him on instinct, leaving a little less than two feet between them. 

“Sandy’s not around, is she?” Ian asks with a sarcastic type laugh and he’s right to ask, given how his cousin’s new habit is interrupting them. 

“Nah, just us.”

“Good. I just—can I ask you something? Finally?” Ian seems weary somehow, smaller than usual as he’s bored down with hesitation. He takes a sip of his beer and then another, maybe in the hopes that it’ll bring him relief. Mickey knows the feeling. 

“Guess so.”

And the air is thick again to the point that it’s hard to breathe. There is always something hanging between them that remains unclear and Mickey knows what it is. It’s just him. His preprogrammed reluctance. Their knees bump against each other in the cramped space of the kitchen but Mickey doesn’t move back, he doesn’t want to. 

When Ian speaks, it’s obvious how he’s been thinking about this. Maybe even more than Mickey has. “Do you want to be with me?”

It’s the question that’s been waiting for them and just the kiss doesn’t tie up the loose end. Mickey wishes it had but he knows Ian wants to hear it. Ian isn’t like Mickey who expresses physicality—where a smile or a laugh is everything he can’t put into words, where a kiss is meant to be the answer. Ian wants to hear it, wants to replay words in his head until they become committed to his memory and Mickey never had to use his words until now. 

Mickey swallows thickly and he’s face to face with admittance, with clearing the slate and allowing whatever they’ve become to each other to be more than just buried emotions. “Don’t know.” 

That’s a lie. 

He does know. His heart has never known anything so clearly that his mind refuses to keep up the same pace. As much as he knows, there’s still that part of him deep down that pushes and tugs at the same time. It battles him from waxing poetry, from letting his emotions spill in the form of words. 

Ian doesn’t appear disappointed and he nods slowly, biting on the inside of his cheek. 

“Better question then.” He pauses, taking a step or two closer to Mickey but he doesn’t touch him. He doesn’t move any inch of himself into Mickey’s space—an invisible barrier between them. “Would you let me be with you?”

An exhale is all that leaves his lips at first and Ian is watching him with that same soft look that makes Mickey’s knees weak. He could lie again, pretend that none of it matters but it does matter. All of it fucking matters. 

“Yeah,” Mickey admits in a husky tone that doesn’t even sound like himself. It’s huge for him, far bigger than a longing touch or a kiss. It’s somehow more solid because the universe can hear him now. His dad, his family, every person that exists parallel to them are unknowing bystanders to Mickey’s admission. 

Ian lets out a sigh of what sounds like relief and he nervously runs a hand through his hair, some of it still falling in odd strands in front of his face. “Good because I—” The words catch in Ian’s throat and he moves closer, setting his beer down in favor of reaching for Mickey’s hand. He loops his fingers around Mickey’s fingers, intertwining them together and it takes another breath before he can meet his eyes. “Fuck, I want to be with you.”

The words are a shockwave to his system and Mickey can pretend that there’s no one else in the world besides Ian as long as he can hear that string of syllables like a melody in his memory. It’s clear what Ian wants and when their foreheads touch much like they did that night of his birthday, Mickey is tempted to give in to it. His hand comes to rest on Ian’s chest and he breathlessly chuckles, feeling how Ian’s heart hammers under his touch. 

“Gotta let me work up to it, Gallagher.”

The first kiss was one thing but another one? That’s an avalanche that Mickey needs time to let cascade and just the admissions of feelings has him feeling like he’s drowning. He doesn’t push Ian away though, just drags his hand down the plane of his chest until the other man speaks. 

Ian laughs in the same whimsical way, his hand curling more tightly around Mickey’s. “Right, yeah. I’m a patient guy.” He eventually pulls back enough to let the both of them breathe but he doesn’t let go of Mickey’s hand, not yet. “You have dinner yet? I can make us something.”

Their hands swing as Ian goes toward the cabinets and Mickey is too overwhelmed to be hesitant. He just lets him go, lets the memory create itself in front of his eyes. “You gonna cook?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Ian smiles and he slides his hand away from Mickey, calloused fingertips leaving behind a wave of goosebumps and there it is again, that feeling. But now Mickey recognizes it as happiness and he holds it, urges his heart to remember what it feels like in case he never has it again. 

They spend the next few hours together—Ian slinging around frozen chicken into some kind of roasted blob that actually tastes pretty good and they sit next to each other on the couch, fully invading the other’s space. An old western comes on the TV and Ian makes conversation into Mickey’s ear, their hands brushing as they get comfortable. He doesn’t shy away from the touch, doesn’t question the pleasant rush it sends through him. Within the confines of Mickey’s house, it seems normal and that this is their own little world—a world where they are just Ian and Mickey. 

They share beers between them, a couple of cigarettes, and one blunt that Ian had in his pocket until the night turns pitch black outside and the clock nears midnight. Ian tells Mickey a corny joke as he hands the blunt over to him, releasing the smoke along with a hearty laugh that Mickey quickly joins in on. 

“You’re off it, man.” Mickey shakes his head at him, letting the drug envelop him and ease his inhibitions. 

Ian mimics him but ends up flipping over to the other side of the couch, eyes half lidded as he holds onto one of the pillows like a little kid. “I’ll sleep it off. I’m good.”

The sight is enough to make Mickey chuckle in disbelief and he tugs on Ian’s arm, getting him back up into a seated position. He’s knocked off his ass and logically, letting him go home at this hour would be an asshole move, right? Logically, Mickey can’t do that. 

“Take the bed.”

Ian casts his bleary eyes up at Mickey, his head rolling until it’s settled on the other man’s shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, go on.”

Mickey nudges him up and Ian uses the push to get up on his feet, his face lit up with an obnoxious smile and a thin layer of pink over his nose. “Are you inviting me to a sleepover?”

His knee gut reaction is to flip him off, careful not to knock the blunt that still dangles between his fingers. “Fuck you is what you were invited to.”

Ian actually fucking giggles and Mickey finds it endearing, no buts about it. He throws a blanket toward Ian, aiming for his face but he catches it easily. “Go, we got work tomorrow.”

“Don’t stay up too lat,.” Ian reminds him as he backs up, actually walking backward toward the bedroom as if he doesn’t want to lose sight of Mickey. 

He waves him off again, falling back against the couch resolutely. “Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

“Night, Mick.” Ian’s voice is nearly a whisper when he says it and they make eye contact one more time until Ian is gone behind the darkness of Mickey’s bedroom. 

Mickey watches him go and he breathes out, finishing off the remainder of the blunt before leaving it abandoned in his ashtray,the remaining smoke fading away into nothing. He watches another movie while Ian sleeps, unable to find it in him to get tired and it’s only by 2AM that Mickey manages to move, heading toward the bedroom himself. He doesn’t plan on sharing but he stands there, watches Ian wrapped up in his sheets, his blanket, and his pulse is electrified by how normal it feels. How normal it is. 

He pads over quietly so he isn’t heard and without a single breath, Mickey pulls the covers further over Ian’s form until they come up to his neck. His eyelids flicker in his sleep but Mickey can still see the cascade of freckles in the moonlight. Bringing a hand up, Mickey gently runs it along the side of Ian’s face and into his hair to push some of it away from his forehead. His skin is warm to the touch, soft despite the stubble growing there and it’s all true, everything Mickey thinks and feels is real. 

Mickey wants to be with him. 

With another glance at Ian’s sleeping form, Mickey pulls back and goes back the same way he came to avoid disturbing him. He closes the door halfway as he makes his way back into the living room, picking up the remnants of their dinner and dumping it into the sink to be worried about later. The TV gets turned off, the pillows readjusted and Mickey makes his way to the front door to slide the chain back in place. It’s peaceful, quiet, relaxed even as he pulls on the curtains to tug them the rest of the way closed but his eyes catch something out in the street, causing him to pause long enough to look outside.

Everything is fine until a dusty orange Ford Torino pulls in down the road and in that second, Mickey knows what he has to do. He casts his eyes toward his bedroom, where Ian is sleeping soundly and then back to the vehicle looming in this distance. The car doesn’t move closer, doesn’t shine it’s headlights in his direction, and from the looks of it, there’s no one even sitting in the front seat but now Mickey understands. He can’t hide anymore, he has to fight. If for the last time, he has to fucking fight. 

Because their game just got intercepted by a third player and this one—this one doesn’t play fair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, my cliffhangers return. I can't resist them, really I've tried but!! I'm feeling inspired so work on chapter 17 is going to start immediately. I'm not going to make any promises but we're about to hit the big stuff for this part of the story so thank you for sticking with me and I'll see you all very soon!!
> 
> and while you're here [please check out this](https://doodlevich.tumblr.com/post/632606288892887040/completed-commission-for-xgoldendays-for-her)beautiful commission that doodlevich did for me based on chapter 15 🥰
> 
> come talk to me at:  
> [@s11mikhailo](https://twitter.com/s11mikhailo) \- twitter // [xgoldendays](https://xgoldendays.tumblr.com) \- tumblr //  
> [s11mikhailo](https://curiouscat.qa/s11mikhailo) \- curiouscat


	17. The House of the Rising Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First thing, thank you to all of you for waiting and being so understanding. It's been that kind of year, you know? And with Shameless back in full swing, it kind of trapped my attention but this chapter is finally done and onward to chapter 18 as soon as I can. I appreciate everyone who follows this story so much and it means a lot that you all continue to stick around for this. 
> 
> my heart to [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor) and especially [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse) who has the biggest brain and came up with a big idea for Patsy's in this fic so I owe her my life. Also big shoutout to my eight friends who I love very much.

Mickey remembers the day like it was yesterday. Every second, every word, every dust of sand that collected in his boots—he remembers every frame as if it was his own personal horror movie that plays on constant repeat. And Mickey would give anything to forget, to take it all back. 

The sun was hanging high in the sky that day, casting blazing streaks of heat into the sand and turning it into a pressure cooker hotter than any pavement back in Chicago. The Yuha desert became Mickey’s second home over the course of the last four months of that year and it was a day just like any other—or at least it was supposed to be.

He and Iggy had been living out of a ratted old apartment in Los Angeles, a slum carved into the back alleyways of downtown that they shared with a couple other guys in the same trade. They lived their weeks like normal shithead kids, taking their money and spending it on booze or drugs, or in Iggy’s case—hookers. They made molehills out of mountains, distracted from their problems, pretended this was the high life and that this is what they deserved. 

And Mickey bought into it. He did. He drank in bars he was too young to be in, smoked until his lungs were blackened and raw—all because he thought that this was his gateway into good favor. If Mickey held out, paid his dues, made enough money then when he went back home, things would be different this time. But dreams were always so much better than reality. 

It was a Tuesday afternoon when they went out on the run. A good four hour drive out to the desert in a borrowed Chevy and Mickey blared “California Dreamin’” on a loop, humming the tune under his breath as the wind whipped past his face. He let his hand hang outside of the window, following the air with light waves of his palm as Iggy lit up a roach with one hand. They passed it back and forth until it burned down to the edge of the paper, the ash burning Mickey’s fingertips. 

They didn’t talk much on those days, mostly because neither of them knew the right words to distract from what they were doing. Every day was a risk and even after seventeen trips and counting, Mickey knew there was every possibility it could blow up. And blow up it did. 

They got there around 3PM, met their usual guy at some halfway house—a shack made out of old scraps of white wood and plaster—and got to work. Most of the time, it wasn’t anything more than a couple of grams, a pound or two to make it a quick transfer of hands but Iggy and Mickey gained a reputation as old pros, pushing their levels to several pounds over the span of a few weeks. Half the load would get buried beneath the seat cushions, buried under foam and pleather in the old hatchback while the rest got strapped onto their chests under bulky clothing. 

It wasn’t the dream life Mickey once imagined for himself but it was normal. He knew how to be this person better than he knew how to be himself. 

Mickey finished up with his share of the drugs before sliding a Colt .45 out of the backseat and pushing into the back of Iggy’s jeans. Just in case. 

It was quiet that day, so eerily silent in the grand expanse of desert that Mickey heard the ticking of Iggy’s wristwatch echoing—slow clicks that counted down the seconds in an ominous jingle. From the cast of their shadows in the sand, Mickey guessed it was nearing midday, a couple hours past high noon at best guess. Time always passed by differently out there. 

Their companion, the middle man between them and the drugs was an uptight Russian man with yellowing teeth and burnt red skin that stretched across chronically sour features. He never told the boys his name, mostly just barked orders at them, and waited in the same rickety chair just outside the shack until they returned. Same shit, different day. 

But this time it actually was different. 

Iggy closed one of the back doors to the car once they were done getting everything in and sauntered over to the driver’s seat, one arm balancing on the lip of the roof. “Let me drive this time. I already got us all the way here.”

Mickey nearly cackled at that, coming up behind his older brother and forcing the keys out of his grip. This was the power dynamic in the Milkovich family. Mickey was the youngest of the men but he carried himself like the oldest and his brothers all knew to fall in line behind him. So when Mickey shoved Iggy out of the way, he raised his hands in defeat and shuffled over to the passenger's side without argument. 

The middle man put a pair of sunglasses on his nose and pulled a newspaper up high so it blocked his face from view. He truly didn’t care if they lived or died by that point, all that mattered was that the Milkovich men always brought back the cash in full. Mickey pulled the visor down above his head to block the sun’s rays while his right hand fiddled with dials on the radio until they settled onto an easy listening station for the drive ahead of them. 

The car churned to life when Mickey flicked the key in the ignition and the brothers exchanged one brief look before taking off down the semi marked dirt path. As tempting as it was, they never went full blast out in the desert, knowing the whole point was to be as inconspicuous as possible. Both men slid on a pair of sunglasses while Iggy kicked his seat back to a laid back position, the light falling over his chest instead of his eyes. He was the type of deadbeat to sleep most of the way there and then bitch about he never got any of the good jobs. Oddly enough, it was surprising to most people to find out that Mickey wasn’t the biggest idiot out of the bunch.

A mile or so away from the shack, still not far enough that it was completely out of sight, there was another dirt road that diverted to the right toward the Mexican border while the other did a loop around back toward California. It was always the same choice—right. Always go right. But Mickey slowed down the car for a second as he made the turn and as he did so, his eyes caught something in his rear view mirror other than sand and cactus. 

A car. One single other car was parked out by where the shack was. Mickey couldn’t tell the model from where they were but within seconds the glare of the Yuha desert sun was blocked out by flashes of red and blue, the indecent chirp of a siren as it rumbled all the way to their car and broke through the music still idly playing on the radio. 

“Holy fuck,” Mickey muttered softly, his hands instinctively tightening on the steering wheel and without even thinking, he stepped on the gas with a sharp turn of the wheel to the left. 

The jolt of the car shook Iggy enough that he sat upright, pushing his sunglasses up to the top of his head. “Hey, watch it!” he started until the mirror on his side caught the red light, sending it diagonally across their dashboard. The realization was quick to hit him and he grabbed the dashboard, turning his body to cast his eyes back behind them. “Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

Iggy’s panicked breathing caused Mickey to feel the rising stuttering in his chest and his eyes kept flickering back to the rear view mirror. The car just noticed them—it would be impossible for them not to—and Mickey stepped on it, tearing through dust clouds to maybe, just maybe get them back to civilization. 

It wasn’t the first time the two of them had ever been chased. Mickey recalled at least five times that the cops were on their tail, smoked them out of their drug dens. Hell, he was a resident of juvie at least three times before that day for different misdemeanors. But now would be different. Iggy was 20; he’d go straight to minimum security prison and Mickey, Mickey was bound to be fucked for life, a child of the system until they got around to serving him his own sentence.

It was a rite of passage in a way—a Milkovich in prison—but Mickey never actually _wanted_ to go. Who would? Who would want to give up their life like that? But the more Mickey peered at the car, the more it felt like freedom was slipping away and every choice he had was going with it. Mickey knew he was capable of getting them back. He knew that it didn’t have to end here but the getting away wasn’t the end of it. The cops would search for them, sniff around until they hunted them down. It was a split decision and it was foolish but Mickey thought that he could be the hero.

Mickey thought in the rush of the moment that maybe this was his chance. Maybe Mickey could start over by giving himself up for the sake of his family and maybe for his own sake too.

With the police car closing the distance, Mickey stopped the car abruptly and both of the men launched forward tight against their seatbelts. Iggy’s eyes went wide as he slapped the dashboard, his head jerking back and forth to see how close the cops were. 

“Mickey, hey. Hey! What the fuck, man?” he yelled as he punched his arm roughly but Mickey didn’t flinch, a numbness falling over him. 

“Get out,” Mickey strained to force out, the tightness in his throat blocking the bravery he wanted to have. 

“What?”

“Get out.” The second time was stronger, more powerful and Mickey’s hand curled in Iggy’s shirt to shove him toward the door. 

Iggy blinked once, twice before he spoke and there was a quiver in his voice that Mickey never heard before. “What are you talking about?” 

“Get the hell out of here, Iggy! Jesus Christ!” It boiled over until his voice exploded, his nostrils flaring dangerously as the panic set in. Mickey reached over him and flung the door open as roughly as he could until it swung back against the wind. 

Iggy watched him with nothing but disbelief in his eyes and Mickey saw the hesitation in that gaze. The flicker of regret. Mickey shoved at him again, angry flailing punches until his brother started moving. He clamored out of the car in a messy heap of limbs, falling to his knees in the sand and staining the denim with yellow dust. 

“Go. Run.”

It didn’t take much more than that and Iggy was tearing off in the opposite direction, gangly legs carrying him through the many sand dunes. He crossed in a zigzag pattern, leaving behind a jagged outline of his path in a matter of seconds. Mickey counted down from ten in his mind as Iggy fled. 

10\. 9. 8. 

Three seconds down and he reached over to tug the passenger’s side door closed shut, the metal rattling with the force of his urgency. In the rear view mirror, Mickey saw them coming, those intense flashes of red and blue in synchronicity with a familiar alarm that echoed off of nothing but the inside of Mickey’s ears until they rattled. 

7\. 6. 5. 

Mickey slammed his foot down on the accelerator and the car skidded against the ground until it picked up enough traction to lead the vehicle to tear off into the emptiness of the Yuha. There was nothing ahead of him but a vast expanse of desert decorated with a few stray cactuses and tumbleweeds. The speedometer blasted its way to 50, 60, 70 until the car was hanging on by an inch, rumbling as the engine gave Mickey its last legs. 

4\. 3. 2. 

Mickey didn’t grow up thinking he was special. Unlike the other kids who put their hearts into storybooks and fantasies, Mickey kept realistic expectations about his life. He was only a boy from the Southside, a product of his murderous, hateful father and his crack addict mother. He wasn’t someone who would break the mold and have a reasonable job, a house, or someone to love. That wasn’t realistic. Realistic for Mickey was that day and the seven years after. 

1.

And Mickey made a choice. He could run, push the limits of the shitty car and speed off into the sunset in search of his brother. Milkoviches were always taught to run but he didn’t. He made a choice that changed the entire course of his life from then on out. He’d never say it in so many words but Mickey sacrificed a part of himself that day. He did it for them but maybe for himself too—because a wanted man was never free. When Mickey slowly took his foot off the accelerator and shifted it to the brake pedal, he chose to do what he thought was the right thing. 

They carried him off that day. March 5th, 1968. 

They shoved him against the hood of that police car like an animal. Cuffed him until there were bruises against his wrists and his muscles puffed angrily at their contorted position. Forced him into a cell with four other guys down in holding. Had him wrangled up in court for a month or two, maybe more but Mickey lost track of the days after the fortieth. 

When they called the witnesses, no one that mattered actually came. No one from his family there to vouch for his innocence. No one to say that maybe this was a mistake—that he was only a kid. But they tried him as an adult, pulled up records of his misdemeanors, blamed it all on bad parenting. They called him a menace to society, a troublemaker, a bad influence, and kids like him shouldn’t be out on the street. 

Mickey found his new home at Beckman Correctional just a couple months shy of his eighteenth birthday. It was juvie times ten, worse when the Milkovich name meant nothing in Los Angeles, other than a snot-nosed kid playing around in shit that didn’t concern him. They didn’t care what Mickey did or didn’t do—so he never told anyone. 

He never told anyone why he did it. 

If they asked what he was in for, the answer was simple. Drugs. Trafficking. Possession of an illegal firearm. Whichever item off the list of charges he thought they wanted to hear. It didn’t matter in the end. Mickey made a name for himself off years worth of pent up anger, a short temper, and a nasty right hook. Intimidation was a Milkovich specialty and Mickey knew how to sell it. 

So he survived those years, passed the test, earned his stripes and now he’s here, a free man —on the precipice of more than just existing and all he has to do is reach out and take it. 

But Mickey hasn’t forgotten. He doesn’t think he ever will. 

From his spot at the window, Mickey’s hand curls around the fabric until it threatens to tear under his grip. He can sense their eyes on him—steely glares judging him from behind blackened windows. Another look back at the bedroom and Mickey runs a hand over his forehead, trying to think on his feet. 

He pulls the curtain closed on the vision of the Torino looming in the distance and heads to the kitchen, bending down to dig through a couple of mostly bare cabinets. 

Sandy told him not to get it. 

She said it was a bad idea if they ever came to search his house or did a surprise visit but Mickey was no fool. On one of his outings with his brothers, he used his last paycheck to get hold of an old Colt .45, nothing too showy but with enough of a grip that it’d do the job. It was strange to hold one again after so many years, to feel the heavy metal between his fingers but at the same time, it was oddly like shaking hands with an old friend. 

Mickey checks the safety on the firearm and it’s still firmly locked in place, that is until he removes it and slides into the back area of his jeans, right up against his spine. There are many things that Mickey forgot over time but there is no forgetting the things that were ingrained in him. 

With one more look behind his shoulder toward his bedroom, Mickey undoes the latch and walks out into the crisp dawn air of the early morning, no choice but to meet his maker. The Torino is closer now, parked just at the entrance of the pavement outside of his apartment. It’s inconspicuous even then and when all the doors open at the same time, Mickey is more taken aback than he should have been. 

He expects to see Terry wielding some kind of weapon to finally do in his youngest son but instead the only people that emerge from the car are his brothers and cousin—as calm as if this is any other day. As if they didn’t come there with a purpose. When they approach, Mickey catches that glint of steel on the inside of Colin’s army green jacket and he knows that their thought process was the same as his. 

“Long time no see, Mick.” Colin’s voice is snide as his blond hair flops in front of his face, one of his hands tucked into his pocket. “You forget about us?”

There’s something about Colin now that’s more authoritative, a blow up to his chest as he speaks and he reminds Mickey of their dad with the heaviness of his overcompensation. There is barely any light cast between them, just faint glows from a weak streetlamp that highlights the dips in his brother’s face. 

“You following me now?” Mickey rolls out sarcastically, standing up straighter as he fixes the three of them with a look of pure contempt. 

“Keeping tabs. Dad wasn’t too happy when he found out you ditched us.”

From the back, a voice interjects and it’s trembling slightly with hesitation. “We’ve been trying to cover for you, man but Terry—” Jamie barely gets the name out before Joey is punching him once in the chest with an outstretched left hand and Colin rolls his eyes, his throat muscles tensing.

“He doesn’t know. We thought we’d give you a chance, let you come to your senses.” Colin looms closer but Mickey is acutely aware that he won’t do anything Terry didn’t ask him to do. He wouldn’t disobey so boldly but what does catch Mickey’s attention is the way Colin watches his apartment—like he knows something. “But looks like you chose your side.”

Mickey instinctively moves into Colin’s line of sight, something telling him to block him from the house. “So what then? You gonna kill me, Colin?”

“We do you a favor, you could at least be grateful,” he spits back. 

Grateful. Grateful that they haven’t ratted him out. Grateful that they haven’t signed his death certificate yet. What a thing to be grateful for. 

“Right. Like you did that shit for me.”

Colin clicks his tongue, sucks on his teeth to keep his composure. “I get it now, you know? You’ve gone fucking soft. Just like dad said.” He pauses, waving a hand toward Mickey’s place. “You and that fag you’re always hanging around with.”

Only then does his blood run cold and his fingers itch to grab the gun, give in to the animalistic want to have this fucking end already. Ian isn’t a part in this, he’s no part of Mickey’s shit and he would never be. Mickey wouldn’t let that happen. 

He growls, stepping up to Colin though his brother has a good few inches on him. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

“What? You thought we wouldn’t notice?” Colin snorts darkly, his chest bumping into Mickey’s and the rage is bubbling, a hard boil that threatens to spill over. “I’m telling you this as a warning, Mickey. Come back or you’re on your own.”

And when hadn’t he been on his own? Every fucking moment in the last seven years before now were spent on his own. 

Colin slaps a hand on Mickey’s cheek roughly but he combats it by grabbing his wrist, twisting the limb away until he can see Colin holding back a yelp.

“Warning you, Mickey,” he tells him again, snatching back his arm and he turns to the other two, barking at them to get back in the car. 

Joey moves in an instant, sliding into the backseat without a single look toward Mickey and Colin mimics him in the same fashion, balancing his arm on the car door as he waits for Jamie to finish off the group. 

“Sorry,” his cousin speaks in a low tone and for a brief second, Mickey catches the flash of defeat in his eyes. 

“Jamie, we’re going!” 

Colin’s bark breaks whatever olive branch Jamie attempted to throw and he quickly backs off, scurrying to the car like a wounded puppy. If this were the old days, Colin would have been the one to crumble under Mickey’s foot but it’s true when they say power corrupts. The car jerks back to life and Colin purposely revs the engine a few times, to really wave his metaphorical dick around until he’s had enough and steers the car in the direction it came. 

Mickey swallows thickly, feeling the squelch of his bile slide down his throat and he stands there until the Torino is completely out of sight. He doesn’t exhale in relief, doesn’t feel his muscles relax and it’s only then that Mickey feels the divets of the gun really digging into the soft flesh of his back. 

It’s taunting him, reminding him that this is just the beginning of his fight.

Mickey doesn’t sleep much that night. He curls up on the sofa with his old throw bunched around his stomach while the cool air hits his bare feet. The heat of the summer is fading rapidly and it’ll be over soon, replaced by the frigid wake of winter. Mickey can’t help but think of it as an omen. He tucks the gun into the empty space under the couch, making sure the safety is back on just in case. Out of sight and out of mind.

Even when he manages to get his body to rest, it isn’t for long and at most an hour or so passes before Mickey is woken up by the smell of cinnamon and a firm hand on his shoulder that causes him to jolt, his whole body convulsing in defense. The man hovering over his body is blurred as Mickey watches him with one open eye, a groan leaving his lips. “Fuck, man.”

“Jesus, sorry. It’s just me,” Ian apologizes with a short awkward laugh, one hand combing through the loose strands of red hair by his ear. “Bad dream?”

Mickey rubs at his eyes with a weak hand, the ‘K’ on his pointer finger digging into the corners to rid them of their exhaustion. “Something like that,” he croaks, sitting up and his blanket pools around his hips, his hair most likely tussled from his restless movements in the night. 

Even when he’s only half awake, Mickey can feel Ian holding back any further questions and he backs off instead of asking them, walking back toward the stove. “I made pancakes. If you’re hungry.”

“What?” Mickey blanks, thinking he must have misheard him. 

“Pancakes?” he repeats, grabbing a skillet that’s barely seen any use and flipping a perfectly round flapjack out of the pan onto a plate. 

It’s just food. Just Ian being his idiotic attentive self and yet the events of the night slowly start coming back into focus. Mickey remembers his brother’s words, still hears the revving of that engine at the edge of his hearing and the sickness threatens to overflow inside of him.

“Gonna take a shower.”

Ian finishes a stack that’s at least five pancakes high and his eyes narrow but he’s still not nitpicking. Amazingly. “Okay…”

It’s with very impressive dexterity that Mickey manages to get up and over to the bathroom without stumbling, his whole stomach churning against his rib cage. The phantom smell of the Torino’s muffler masks the comforting whiff of cinnamon and Mickey chokes back the urge to throw up. 

Ian isn’t to blame. Mickey knows that, he knows it but he can’t stop the regrets, the worry, the overwhelming reach of his fears that suddenly gurgle to life inside him. He just wants it to stop. He’d do anything to get it to stop. The happiness that lived so vividly inside of him for the past week or so fades to the background and it all just… shuts down, turns into solid concrete until feeling nothing is better than not knowing what to do, how much longer he’s willing to hold on. 

The water that comes out of the sink is an off yellow sort of color from the corroded plumbing but Mickey cups a handful of it anyway, swallows it without a second thought. It’s bitter going down but it clears the passageway enough that he can get himself into the shower without incident. 

Mickey uses what is left of the hot water by turning it on full blast and letting the heat burn into back, scalding away at any remnants of the previous day. He’s so numb that when his skin turns a deep red where the water collides, he doesn’t react until he’s getting his shirt back on and the fabric brushes against the sensitive spot. 

It’s a good twenty minutes before he’s back in the living room, where Ian is fully engrossed in an early morning cartoon with a plate of food balancing on his knee. He doesn’t announce his presence but Ian looks up anyway, half a cheek bulging with food. 

“Food’s getting cold.” Ian motions to a plate waiting for Mickey on the countertop, his mouth forming a smile around his fork. “I was gonna say we could hang before getting ready for work but looks like you’re ready to go.”

This would be the part where Mickey snaps back at him, rolls his eyes or laughs or something but all that leaves his mouth is a half muttered ‘thanks.’ Combined with Mickey mindlessly poking at the stack of pancakes in front of him, it’s not surprising when Ian gets up with a now empty plate and heads toward the sink. 

“Yeah, it’s no problem,” Ian mumbles right back, busying himself with cutting through the syrup that’s stuck on the porcelain. “You okay?”

Mickey stabs the fork all the way through the stack, his stomach still weak but he eats the mouthful anyway because well, Ian fucking made it for him. “Didn’t sleep much.” And it’s not a lie but it’s not quite the truth either. 

Regardless, Ian accepts that answer and finishes cleaning up without digging any deeper. “Eat some more. It’ll wake you up.” He shoots Mickey a half smile, wiping his hand on one of his dish towels slowly. 

No other words pass between the two of them and it’s strange. Ian’s overzealous voice doesn’t fill the empty space, doesn’t ask him for more detail. There’s no quirky charm or crooked grin when Ian comes out of the shower ten minutes later and Mickey starts to think that maybe he meant what he said. That he’ll be patient. 

They don’t speak on the way to the L either and it becomes obvious then that Ian is biting his tongue for Mickey’s sake. He even leaves a seat between them when they take the train out to Patsy’s, spending most of the time messing with his shoelace or loose lint hanging off his jeans. Mickey is silently grateful for the quiet as his brain actively combats every ounce of resentment built up inside him. 

He’s practically a robot when they walk the block and a half from the station, nearly forgetting that Ian is only a few feet behind him. It’s the first time in a long while that Mickey isn’t hyper aware of Ian’s presence. It’s only after the door nearly swings back in Ian’s face after Mickey forgets to hold it open for him that Ian swings back into action. 

“What’s up with you?” Ian asks, nipping at Mickey’s heels on the trip from the front to the back room. 

“Nothing.” 

They both reach their lockers at the same time, clicking the locks almost in unison and Mickey buries his face in his to shield Ian from staring. 

“You haven’t said a full sentence to me all morning. It’s not nothing.”

Mickey can’t see Ian but he can imagine the chin he’s getting from him. That stupid puppy dog pout. 

“I said it’s nothing.” He emphasizes, shoving his wallet into the empty space of his locker. 

“Mickey.” Ian’s locker closes with a soft clang and soon enough, his head is peeking over the top of Mickey’s. “What’s going on?”

What is he supposed to tell him? That everything is collapsing and he doesn’t have the strength to stop it? That his life is teetering over the abyss and the only option he might have is to let it happen, only to rebuild it all over again from scratch? It’s the pressure, that overwhelming weight on his mind and his body, the one that eats him away from the inside that causes him to snap. 

“None of your damn business.” The grit in his tone isn’t intentional but there’s no taking it back or masking the irritation. 

A scoff leaves Ian’s lips and his jaw twitches with annoyance from what Mickey can catch in his peripheral vision. “We’re still doing this? Really?”

“I told you.”

“Asshole.” The word is spat out several octaves louder and Ian shifts his hand to slam Mickey’s locker closed, narrowly missing one of his fingers. 

He didn’t want to take it out on Ian but here he is, doing it anyway. 

Everything that Mickey wants to hold in, strains it’s way into his also escalating voice, his right hand shoving Ian back. “Fucker.”

“Hey!” Fiona barks from the entryway, most likely alerted by the raising voices. 

The door to the office opens from their left and Sean wobbles his way out, his stubble more overgrown on his chin than usual. If the man wasn’t Mickey’s boss, he might have told him he looked like shit. 

He motions for Fiona to move along and grabs Mickey by the arm, tugging him a few feet away. “You. Outside. Go cool off.” He heaves Mickey in the direction of the back door before jabbing a finger at a space behind him. “Show’s over everyone.”

Show? From his place in the doorway, Mickey catches his coworkers wide eyed and curious, looking on at the two men like circus animals. The scowl that Mickey adapts is natural but it’s Sean’s voice that ends their free entertainment. 

The workers all scramble back to their positions, grabbing plates or orders and hauling ass out of the way. Over the commotion, Ian and Mickey exchange blood boiling glances as Fiona puts a hand on Ian’s shoulder to push him back toward the grill. 

Mickey grits his teeth together and pulls a cigarette out of his apron pocket before kicking open the back door with a slam. It doesn’t light right away because Mickey’s hands just won’t stop fucking trembling and he’s aching with a rage he didn’t unleash until now. 

But it’s not even Ian that he’s mad at. He should be, should be cursing him for ever unlocking those unused sections in his heart but he’s not mad at him. Mickey just wants it to stop. He wants it all to fucking stop. He brings the cigarette to his lips once he finally gets it lit and takes shaky puffs off the end, only flinching slightly when the back door opens. 

He expects Sean to appear, ready to berate him for his outburst but he’s taken aback when Fiona pokes her head out after a minute of hovering. 

“Hey, you okay?” Her voice isn’t stern and motherly as it often can be with her siblings. It has an air of concern, a light whisper of curiosity. 

“Yeah, fine.”

“Look,” Fiona starts, pulling a thin Parliament out of a pack in her apron. She lights it before speaking, letting her chest expand with smoke first. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two and I’m not gonna ask but whatever it is, I suggest you figure it out before you’re out of a job.”

It’s not a threat as much of a warning and Mickey casts his eyes downward to his new pair of work boots, the leather squeaking when he drags it over the pavement. 

“Sean’s a patient guy and he likes you. We all do but—”

Mickey scoffs but she’s right, she means well. “Gotta keep my nose clean on parole.”

“Yeah,” Fiona mumbles, her teeth tugging on the skin on the inside of her cheek. 

“I’m good. Don’t need you worrying about me.”

“I know you don’t need me to but I do.” When Mickey doesn’t respond, Fiona sighs and she keeps her eyes fixated on his side profile, her eyes crinkling in a way that shows off the years of worrying. “Just talk to him. Work it out or I’ll kick both of your asses.”

Mickey sucks down more smoke as his one and only response but Fiona doesn’t combat him. She finishes her cigarette only halfway before discarding it on the floor, squishing the tip of it under a dirt stained pair of white sneakers.

“Come back when you’re done.” Her eyes don’t meet Mickey’s as she heads back in, letting the steel door fall closed with a muffled click. 

The wind whips past roughly, enough to cast the stench of oil into his nose and cause that one trouble strand of hair to fall into his face. It drags his smoke away and Mickey shivers, already sensing the far off sting of autumn making its appearance. It wouldn’t be long now before he ran out of time—before summer was over. 

Mickey inhales one more time and then he’s copying Fiona’s movements with a swift flick of his fingers, his boot stubbing out the remaining ash on his cigarette. It takes Mickey a minute of hyping himself up to head back inside and when he does, no one looks up—not even the redhead blankly flipping flapjacks. If it were another one of their fights, another day just like any other, then maybe the silence might have stayed that way but when Mickey takes the spot next to Ian at the grill, Ian speaks immediately.

“Are you going to keep being an asshole?”

A pause. Mickey keeps his gaze on a patch of grease staining the empty slots between the missing wall tiles. “Haven’t decided yet.”

“Let me know when you figure it out.” 

And that’s it. They fall into a silence that’s not quite defeating but it does sink in deeper into Mickey’s bones than he’s willing to admit. He doesn’t like this anymore—his useless anger. Stopping it though? Not that easy when all he’s ever known is how to be angry. 

Their breaks come around faster than Mickey expected and Fiona calls out from between the barrier, her voice carrying over the rows of chicken and fries lying up on the hot plate. “Ian. Mickey. Break.” 

Mickey turns to dump his apron without bumping into Ian and for a single second, he considers saying something. What exactly that would have been, he isn’t sure but when he looks up, all he catches is the back of Ian’s retreating form. 

Ian takes a sharp turn into the bathroom without so much as a second glance to anyone else in the room, not even a casual scan of his surroundings. But Mickey catches the hunched way he stands, the string of tension around his shoulders and the Parliament in his chest pocket—not the Marlboros they often share between them. All in quick succession. 

He’s not sure when he started seeing those small quirks, those tiny things about a person that are only visible when you really look but Mickey sees it all. He can see when Ian isn’t Ian—when he’s not the man that lights up the universe by simply existing. And Mickey knows when it’s his fault. 

It’s a break in his routine to do this. One of the cooks raises his head to ask Mickey if he wants his usual and Mickey is quick to brush him off, squeezing between customers to get to the bathroom. It’s not a conscious decision, an impulsive one at best but Mickey can’t just leave it. For once. He can’t handle all the pressure. 

The bathroom is worse than his own apartment—two stalls with two barely functioning toilets, a sink with the worst water pressure known to man, and the distinct lingering of after sex. The door creaks when Mickey pushes it open, the wood giving slightly under the weight of his palm and the only sound in the box sized room is a pair of sneakers shuffling in the larger stall, the soles just visible through the gap at the bottom. 

Mickey lets out a puff of air and he moves to stand parallel to the stall door, his back against the partition. 

“Ian,” he says softly, fixating on the cracks in the paint but imagining Ian pacing in the toilet, hands running through his hair. 

It’s several seconds before an answer comes and it’s more of a croak than a pleasant response. “What?”

Another shuffle and Mickey peers down to see the soles of those sneakers stop next to the door just opposite where he’s standing. The barrier of the door is between them but Mickey can feel him there, catches a whiff of his cologne through the sewage. 

“I got a lot on my mind.”

“And you don’t want my help” Ian grumbles but it’s filled with resignation more than annoyance. 

“It’s not—” Mickey continues through gritted teeth, gnawing the edges of the bone together as the words seem to escape him. “There’s nothing you can do.”

From the inside, there’s a click of the lock unlatching and another quick side step of sneakers until Mickey is face to face with Ian—his body imposing in such a small space. 

“Could have just said that.”

Mickey chuckles under his breath, one finger coming up to rub at his brow. “Yeah, I know,” he admits, finally pushing off the partition to stand up straight. 

It becomes clear in an instant just how little space is between them when Mickey’s boot presses into the front of Ian’s sneaker, squishing his toes through the fabric. Ian stifles a laugh but he stays in place, only reaching to slide one of his hands into his pocket. 

“You want me to leave you alone?” Ian asks gently, a tiptoe of words instead of a full blown run. 

Mickey thinks about his answer, how could he not? He knows what lies ahead, knows the damage it might cause but this summer. He wants what’s left of summer. 

“No.”

Ian smiles and it blooms that tiny flicker of hope in Mickey’s chest, the damn flame that just refuses to die. His voice is laced with fondness as he nods once, sealing their fate. “Good. Then I won’t.”

It takes all of Mickey’s willpower not to tell Ian that he might not have a choice. 

—

It’s Friday before Mickey sees another human being. Not even Lip makes himself known and when he sees the man nearly as much as he sees Ian, well, that’s strange enough on its own. But he doesn’t push it. Most people assume that isolation is the last thing Mickey wants but there’s comfort in the quiet, in letting his thoughts mull over in the emptiness of his own apartment. To exist without all the damn noise. To forget about the overwhelming pressure. 

His brothers haven’t stopped by since that day but Mickey isn’t naive enough to believe done is done. The remaining Milkovich men have the intelligence of a cardboard box put together but their threats are never empty. Milkoviches always made good on their promises. It was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. Mickey is just biding his time until the reckoning. 

The rumble of that damn Torino plays on loop in his mind, every song on his radio becoming harmonious with the sound. But it’s not paranoia when Mickey checks his locks three times, opens and closes the curtains a handful of times, rolls through the loaded barrel of his pistol for the fortieth time that week. It’s not paranoia. He’s just checking. Just in case. 

And if Mickey downs six bottles of beer every night like clockwork—one beer at six, another at seven, a third at 8:30 then that’s just his own damn business. 

He’s on beer number three in the cycle when a knock comes on his door and he nearly jumps out of his skin until he realizes he made a promise to Ian after leaving the bathroom the other day. Friday. Something about a movie night, he thinks but isn’t sure. Most of the days have started to blur together. Mickey knocks back the rest of the beer in one strong swig to drown out the bile that came up in his panic and goes to answer the door. 

Thankfully there are no surprises this time, just Ian standing in his doorway with a bag over his shoulder and a navy short sleeved collared shirt clinging to the muscles of his abdomen. He grins at the sight of Mickey, bumping right into him as he passes. There’s familiarity there, a comfortable vibration, and Ian being there fills in gaps Mickey didn’t know he had. 

Ian drops his bag on the ground by the couch and leans over the side to flick the radio dials until they land on Ian’s favorite. Today, a soft rock melody filters through and Ian turns the volume down until it’s not much more than a soft murmur in the background. Another move and Ian is lying back on Mickey’s couch, watching him with a lazy gaze. 

“Looks like you’re trying to move in,” Mickey lightly jabs at him with his words, locking the door behind him as inconspicuously as possible. 

“Just preparing for our sleepover.” 

He rolls his eyes at Ian’s phrasing, switching gears over to the kitchen where he grabs a frost bitten bag out of his freezer. Ian takes to calling their hangouts sleepovers. The days when Ian is too lazy to leave and Mickey is too nice to kick his ass to the curb. Nothing has happened since his birthday, not much more than brief contacts of skin but neither of them mention it. Neither of them really feel like they have to. 

Mickey rips open the side of the bag with the edge of his molars and dumps the entire contents of it onto a baking tray that he saw Sandy use once but he’s not touched until now. The little squares of dough clang against the metal, bits of ice falling off of them and onto the counter. The sound catches Ian’s attention enough that he sits up, arching his neck to look over the side of the counter. 

“Pizza rolls?” Ian asks and he’s already grinning, his cheeks bursting into fullness. 

“Yeah, pizza rolls,” Mickey retorts from where his head is now stuck in the oven, adjusting the pan to sit on the middle rack. “What? They’re good.”

The couch puffs when Ian flops back down on it, amusement still coating every syllable. “Oh yeah, real high quality dinner.”

“Then don’t eat. See if I give a shit.” Mickey grunts as he pushes the oven door closed with one socked foot, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans. 

“Just come sit with me.” And when Mickey looks up, he sees Ian beckoning him over with one hand patting the couch and a shit eating grin on his face. It’s that look that’s become hard to resist that with a heavy eye roll, Mickey obliges and takes the spot next to him with a huff. 

They spend ten minutes trying to find something to watch, most of their options ruined by static. Ian finally settles for a random western that Mickey vaguely recognizes and once he wrestles the pizza rolls out of the oven without burning himself, they kick their feet up on the coffee table, a joint being passed from hand to hand. 

They’re only five minutes in when Ian opens his trap, popping a pizza roll between his teeth. “When’s the last time you saw a movie?”

It’s a mundane sort of question and Mickey’s brows furrow, unsure of why it even matters. But Ian was the one who cared about their damn questions tradition while Mickey obliged him blindly. 

“Before right now?” Mickey counters with another question, eyes focused on a cowboy saddling a mustang. “Don’t know, couple nights ago?”

He rolls his eyes, snatching the forgotten joint that lay between Mickey’s knuckles. “No, I mean for real.”

“Like a movie theater?”

“Yeah, like a movie theater.”

And it dawns on Mickey that he doesn’t actually know. Movies, games, anything that wasn’t completely necessary was a second thought in the Milkovich household. He was lucky to get a record to play on the shitty turntable he nicked from a dumpster. 

Mickey’s face scrunches in thought and he mentally does the math, landing on the closest number. “Jesus, probably ‘65.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Don’t got shit like that in prison.”

The surprise doesn’t register on Ian’s face and Mickey is impressed by how well he holds it in. He cleanly keeps the conversation on track, passing the joint back without a hint of judgement. “What if I take you?”

Take him. Out. To a movie. It goes through one ear and out the other until it circles back around, hitting him sideways and heating up his face unexpectedly. Mickey does the only obvious thing and pretends Ian didn’t say anything, getting at least five pizza rolls down before he repeats the question. 

Mickey swallows a lump in his throat, his hand blindly reaching for the cool glass of his beer bottle to use as a crutch. “Only if it’s that shark movie,” he says as cool as possible, his face a steely blank expression while his heart does the exact opposite. 

“Yeah,” Ian drawls, pressing his lips together while his eyes crinkle. “Whatever you want.”

It shouldn’t be fucking endearing but it is. It’s an arrow straight to Mickey’s heart. 

Ian grabs one of the last pizza rolls off the tray, leaving a singular one there for Mickey. He motions towards it and Mickey is ready to tell him to just eat the damn thing when the phone rings beside him. It’s not strange for Mickey to get phone calls—from Sandy, from Lip, one time from Larry, random telemarketing shit—but nearing midnight? They must have a death wish. 

Mickey grumbles and gives Ian a nudge to the arm, mouthing for him to eat the rest of the food as he picks up the receiver, resting it against his ear. “Yeah, hello.” 

Feedback rings back in Mickey’s ear until the line clears, leaving behind the rumble of cars in the background and a distinct exaggerated breathing pattern from whoever was on the line. It almost seems like a crank call until the person speaks, groggy and detached. 

“Mickey? It’s Sean.” Mickey blinks in surprise, his mind kicking in before the confusion registers in the lines of his face. He immediately casts his eyes at Ian, whose eyebrows start to stitch together and mouths ‘who is it?’. 

He raises a hand to hush Ian for a second, swallowing back the sense of dread that’s suddenly overcoming him. Sean never calls him, he didn’t even know the man knew his number so whatever it is, he instantly knows it’s important. Mickey’s stomach sloshes and the gurgling bile licks at his throat, all before Sean can speak a single word.

But it’s not paranoia. It’s not.

The line goes quiet but there’s no dial tone, just dead air and a vaguely familiar voice pleading in the background followed by an earful of crashing noises. “Get your ass out here right now,” Sean demands, cutting off the tension at the neck. There’s panic there, his gruff tone heavier than usual.

“Patsy’s?” Mickey asks but he answers his own question only seconds later. “Everything okay?”

Normally Sean is a commanding presence, overwhelming in his anger and his bouts of protective aggression but this time, that’s not what turns his words into a furtive jab that stabs straight into MIckey’s abdomen. No, it’s the sliver of fear that creeps out, foreign and invasive. “Can’t explain over the phone. Just do it.”

“But—” Mickey starts but he’s cut off not only by Sean but by the way Ian can’t seem to stop staring, his eyebrows raised as high as humanly possible. He halfway snarls at Ian, dragging a hand over his neck.

The female voice in the background becomes clearer but Mickey can’t put a firm distinction on it before Sean barks out a command. “Now, Mickey.”

The line finally goes dead and Mickey listens to the echo of the dial tone with a glaze in his eyes, unsure of what just happened. 

Ian’s hand reaches out and grips his bicep, squeezing gently to bring him back to reality. “Mickey. What did he say?”

Their eyes meet in the dim light of the lamp and Mickey can barely speak louder than a quick stammer. “We gotta get to Patsy’s.”

“What? For what? It’s late.” He pulls back, getting up off the couch and clicking the TV off in one fluid motion, the easy going western disappearing in an instant. 

“Don’t know.” And he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what to think or maybe he does, maybe his thoughts are already forming a sick scenario that he can’t bear to speak out loud. Either way, Mickey grabs his keys off the coffee table, his chest struggling with even breaths. “Get your shit.”

There’s not much Ian can say in retort and he nods, grabbing his bag just in case and slugging it over their shoulder. They make the trip to the L as hurriedly as they can, jogging up the steps to the station two at a time. Ian can’t stop himself from asking Mickey what Sean said exactly, if he heard anything about Fiona, all questions that Mickey can’t give a clear answer to. It does nothing to calm the steadily climbing panic, that sick weight of the unknown that stamps into his sternum. He can only imagine Ian’s mind is racing in the same way, maybe at twice as fast the speed. 

Ian walks a few paces to Mickey’s left, his shoulder the only part of him that brushes up against him as they walk. They don’t speak but for the first time, it’s not because of any tension between them. Ian can sense it too—that something’s wrong. It’s in the air, it’s there when they get off the L and the street is more vacant for this time of night than usual. They hear people whisper among themselves as they pass, some of them with wild gestures while others carry the wake of pity—sad downcast gazes that only make Mickey’s stomach lurch more violently. 

Every step is weighted and the five minute walk to Patsy’s extends to an eternity where the only thing tethering Mickey to the then and now is Ian. As they approach the corner, Ian steps ahead while Mickey catches a reflection of light on the ground. A piece of glass, one and then another—all littered along the uneven sidewalk. If it was just a few stray shards, it wouldn’t be anything to look twice at but a couple becomes masses, enough to smash under their shoes with a deafening crunch. 

They turn the corner and it’s there. Ian stops just short of the entrance or really, what remains of the entrance to Patsy’s Pies. At first, it’s hard to really understand what he’s looking at. The glass windows to Patsy’s are smashed in, every single one of them broken to the point that nothing remains, uneven slats of glass barely hanging onto the supports. The front door swings open on its hinges, creaking in the slight gust of wind that blows by. The sign above their heads doesn’t glow with that familiar brilliant yellow light and some of the letters are scattered in busted pieces on the ground by their feet. 

But it’s the inside that’s even worse. Through the shattered glasses, Mickey sees the booths, each one of them slashed through, the leather and the stuffing pulling out of the cushions. The chairs are overturned, some of them missing several legs that he can only assume were used in the wreckage. Almost every lightbulb is cracked which casts a ghostly darkness over the dining room. Every inch of the carpet is yanked up, revealing the bare underbelly of the flooring where Mickey can faintly make out spray paint marking out words he’d rather not remember. The appliances are pulled out of their sockets, beaten into useless pulps and worse, the register hangs open—empty of every single cent. 

There’s nothing to say. No words that can express the emptiness that drowns Mickey in that moment. His mind can barely wrap around the void and he can’t bring himself to look at Ian though he’s sure his reaction is much the same. The bustling epicenter of Mickey’s new life is suddenly gone and in its place is the shell of what used to be one of the most popular diners on the Southside. The carcass of the place that kept Mickey fed, that kept him in check, that brought him back to Ian.

The carnage—it goes past every fear that Mickey had and reminds him of the bitter reality of his choices. Because while he can’t confirm it, can’t place them there, Mickey knows this is their fault, which makes it _his_ fault. The words they sprayed on the ground are for him. This is his warning. This is that wake up call. His mistakes no longer just affect him. The more people Mickey brings to his side, the more people he can hurt along the way and that burns going down—more than any ounce of alcohol he’s consumed in his life. 

It’s oddly sobering, seeing the silhouette of his boss move just inside the building where he steps over the remains of his livelihood. He comes out through the door and his shoulders drop, his eyes battered with dark circles. There’s a weakness to Sean, a shock that glazes over his eyes and Mickey knows—he just knows it’s his fault. 

“Come on.” Sean jerks his head in the direction of the dining room, not waiting for them to follow. 

Ian goes first but Mickey can sense the hesitation. He drags his feet as he goes, carrying with him the shards of glass from the outside. It’s too real but Mickey wishes it was another one of his nightmares. It definitely feels like one. He follows after Ian, lifting his feet over a fallen plank from the roof and when he sees it all in its entirety, it’s like looking into a ghost town. 

They’re the only people in the building minus the female voice that Mickey heard on the phone. Fiona sits in one of the semi-intact booths, her head dropped into her hands and her sniffles echo in the empty space. 

“What happened?” Ian asks with a hoarse grit, his square jaw even more steeled. 

Just from his stance alone, Sean is hardly equipped for this—his fingertips already scratching at his arms but he keeps it together enough to explain. “Couple of guys came in when it was just Fiona and Harry. Started throwing shit, stole all the fucking money.” The way Sean looks at him isn’t lost on Mickey and he can sense the word Milkoviches hanging in his tongue—everyone knows who his father is. “They—” And he glances through the darkness to the only other person in the room. 

Fiona glances up then and a trickle of blood gleans fresh against the side of her face, spouting from a nasty slice at her temple. With a sharp intake of breath, Ian moves to her side immediately, grabbing whatever napkins are nearby to press to his sister’s head. The sight is mesmerizing but only in a way that turns Mickey’s blood into ice and sucks the color from his skin until he’s ghostly pale. Ian casts a sideways glance in his direction but returning the look seems impersonal now, insensitive, cruel. 

“Tried to call Lip, no answer. Couldn’t get a hold of anyone else,” Sean continues, “I’m gonna take her to the hospital but I need you two to stay here. In case they come back.”

“Okay, yeah. Yeah,” Mickey grunts out but there’s no connection there. He hasn’t let it sink in just yet—the magnitude not caught all the way up. 

“Generator still works so you’ve got some light. Just—salvage what you can.”

Ian stands up when Sean approaches, clutching a fistful of blood soaked napkins in his fist and maybe it’s a trick of the darkness but Mickey can swear he sees his knuckles quiver. Sean reaches his hand out to lightly grip Fiona’s bicep and he helps her to her feet, wrapping another arm around her middle. It’s only when she’s in the flood lights that they can see the full damage. 

“Assholes have no problem taking it out on a woman with a bat.” Fiona chuckles dryly once she notices all the eyes on her, a cover up to the pain that hides just under the surface. By the side of the booth, there’s a discarded baseball bat with the very tip of it split in half and blood staining the wood in splotches. “I got my licks in though, don’t worry. They’re lucky I didn’t have a knife.”

Mickey wants to tell her it wasn’t him. 

He wants to plead his case because he’s not them, they aren’t him, he wouldn’t do this, but he’s speechless. His cowardice refuses to let him speak and the fear is climbing, masking his sensibilities. Sean holds Fiona upright and leads her through the rubble and Mickey moves until his back hits the jagged edge of broken wood coming from one of the poles. 

His whole body is paralyzed and it’s the same feeling all over again, the dread washing over and ridding his body of every good thought he’s had in the last week in one angry tidal wave. Ian steps out from behind the counter and follows after Sean, holding open the door to his car all while saying words of consolation that Mickey can barely hear.

“Fuck,” Mickey whispers to himself as he bends down to lift up the leftover pieces of a coffee pot tossed over the counter. The cracked shards press into his palm and nearly break the skin but every inch of him is numb. 

His imagination starts to fill in the pieces as Mickey moves broken boards around, clearing a path in the rubble. Colin made well on the warning he gave Mickey, delivering the blow where he least expected it to hit. Where Mickey was made of solid steel, he hadn’t reinforced the other parts of his life in the same way. Patsy’s. Fiona. Ian. Sandy. Lip. They are all destructible pawns in a dangerous game that they didn’t know they were a part of and it was his fault. Terry was going to take each one of them and crush them, capture the last remainder of Mickey’s happiness until all he had left was that vacant shell of a kid who believed his dad held all the answers. 

And it was Mickey’s fault. 

A crunch of glass alerts Mickey to Ian’s presence and they dance around each other, leaving several feet of space between them. Neither of them can bring themselves to speak and there’s a vastness that combines with the wind as it howls past the cracks in the window, bringing by a chill into the remains. Goosebumps dot the back of Mickey’s arms as he gets behind the counter, lifting the cash register back into its old spot. 

This isn’t right. It isn’t supposed to be this way. While the picture of Mickey’s life was never clear to him—never made up of sunshine and rainbows—he didn’t think he would self-destruct so royally, collapse so clumsily. It isn’t meant to be this way. 

As Mickey gets his footing around a loose square of tile, the blood starts pumping loudly behind his ears in sweet contrast to the scratching of a broom in the nearby distance. Mickey’s autopilot guides him around the counter and he drops into a booth unceremoniously, inhaling sharply and steadily. His eyes unfocus, leaving the room in a foggy blur and the world muffles around him to the point that the calling of his name doesn’t even sound real. 

“Mickey. Hey.” 

It’s Ian, he knows that but he lacks a reaction, only able to drop his head into the palm of his right hand—his eyes closing and his skin itching for relief. 

“Mickey.” Heavy footsteps thud over to him until a palm lies heavy on his knee, flat against the bone. 

Even his response is robotic, his default to anything and everything. “I’m fine,” he unconvincingly snarls at him, attempting to shift back away from that comforting touch that overwhelms him but Ian holds firm in place. 

“You’re not _fine_ ,” Ian growls right back though eventually he does let go, standing with some hesitation. “Hold on.” He leaves Mickey’s side, clamoring through the rubble to the back room where Mickey can hear him rummaging around. It’s not for very long at all, minutes at most and Ian comes back with his hands cradling a damp towel. “Ice hasn’t melted yet.” He tells him, taking the crumpled rag and laying it along the back of Mickey’s neck. 

The cold goes straight through his spine, jolting his senses enough that his vision clears and he can think clearer, see the worry in Ian’s eyes more prominently. “Thanks.”

“I get it.” Ian leaves the towel to rest on Mickey’s neck and he shuffles so he can sit down on the floor beside him, his pants already covered in enough dirt that it doesn’t matter. “I don’t think it’s hit me yet.” 

Mickey owes it to them. He’s very aware that he owes Ian that much and if he doesn’t hand it over, he’ll tear it out of him anyway. Maybe if Ian runs now, he can get away from Mickey before it’s too late, before he self-destructs right along with him. 

“I think I know who did it.”

Green eyes side eye him and he’s pensive, thoughtful, calm. There are trances of Fiona in him—that same grounded nature that makes them so strong. Ian swallows, his Adam's apple dipping dramatically. “Who?”

“My dad.”

Calloused fingertips run through the almost too long hairs on the top of Ian’s head and he breathes out, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Mickey, that—this isn’t your fault,” he starts, a bite to his declaration. “It’s not. Not every bad thing that happens to you is your fault.”

But that’s the punchline to the joke. Everything is because of him. Ian just hasn’t realized it yet. Mickey sighs, taking the towel off his neck and holding it loosely, cool water sliding down his arm. “I gotta do something.”

“Like what?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

From beside him, Ian scoffs and he pulls his feet across the ground so he can grip his knees. He’s much smaller this way and Mickey tries to recall Ian as a kid, if that memory even exists. All this time, being so close, and now, at the turning point of Mickey’s life, that’s when Ian decides to show up. There are some sick powers at work for that one. 

He can’t explain it. Not entirely. Mickey can’t detail how Ian creates so much hope in his body but at the same time, he’s terrified of crushing him. Of destroying that light that lives so feverishly inside of Ian—a light that can only fight against Mickey’s darkness for so long before it starts to flicker. He doesn’t want to hurt him but he can’t seem to get out of that spotlight that Ian shines down on him. He doesn’t want to. But time is ticking and Mickey knows that; he’ll have to make a choice even if it’s the last thing he wants to do. 

His eyes glance over at Ian, just the hint of light from the street outside casting shadows on his face and Mickey knows he’s not the only one struggling. He wipes his hands on the front of his jeans and gets out of the booth, moving until he’s knelt in front of Ian, their previous positions swapped. 

One of Mickey’s hands presses into the crook of Ian’s neck where there’s nothing but tension and his skin is hot to the touch through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Call it desperation but when Mickey closes the gap to press his lips heatedly against Ian’s, he pours every ounce of himself into it. Ian hesitates at first, shocked and frozen but eventually he takes it in stride and grips Mickey’s waist, standing up and tugging his shorter frame along with him. They knock against some stray pieces of cardboard, stumbling to find their footing but they don’t part for even the briefest second. 

They’re exposed to the night, no windows or shades to block them from view but it’s breaking on the early hours of the morning—another day ticked off on the calendar and Mickey can’t wait anymore. He lets Ian tug on the hairs on the back of his neck, suck lightly on his bottom lip in a way that ensnares his senses. Mickey’s palm comes up to mirror Ian’s, gliding over the smooth skin of his freshly shaven face and holding him there, memorizing the taste of Ian’s lips against his. 

It’s not the same as the first time. When the shock hits him this time, it’s trying to resuscitate him, bring him back to life. He wants a single kiss to be enough to change it all, to take them back in time to when their biggest problem was working in the same shitty diner but those times are over. It’ll all be over soon. 

When Mickey slowly opens his eyes, all he can see is that glow of pink coloring the line of freckles that dot along Ian’s nose. His lips are flushed and parted in a way that entices as much as it endears Mickey—it’s that one, two combo that’s become synonymous with Ian and only Ian. His eyes stay closed as he catches his breath but when he finally opens them to look at Mickey, he’s smiling. A single smile and it’s all okay for those fractions of times that Mickey is allowed to witness it. 

“Definitely worth waiting for,” Ian whispers, his left hand squeezing at Mickey’s hip in a way that makes him squirm. 

It’s been what? A few weeks since his birthday. Weeks since their kiss but to Mickey, that’s nothing. A week is nothing. To Ian, maybe a week is a lifetime while a week is a second to Mickey. 

“Alright, alright. I’m not the fucking Virgin Mary.” Mickey lays a firm smack on Ian’s chest, pushing him a few inches away though Ian manages to hold a hand on his waist. 

“Are you sure?” Ian’s brows wiggle and he squeezes again, his fingers dipping into soft flesh and now he’s just testing Mickey’s patience. 

He rolls his eyes hard and attempts to snake his way out of Ian’s arms. “If I knew a fucking kiss would make you this cocky, I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Yeah, you woulda.” 

And the cocky fucker is right. He would have. 

The whole exchange is the quiet ribbing that Mickey needs to stay sane and while there’s a hollow echo behind their laughter, it’s enough for now. It’ll be more than enough. 

When the moment fades, Ian’s grip slowly loosens and he moves away, checking the space just behind Mickey’s shoulder. No one comes marching in, no brigade to condemn the two of them. It’s _okay_. 

Ian brushes more hair out of his eyes and he sighs, dragging his broom from off the floor. “Just—clue me in when you figure it out, okay?”

“Maybe,” Mickey offers and it’s not much but when Ian half smiles, crooked but sweet—it’s enough for now.

They break apart naturally and when the noise dies down, it doesn’t feel nearly as hollow this time. They spend the next hour picking up glass, sweeping up dirt, and dumping pieces of hardware into large trash bags that Ian sets up on the floor by the counter. They fill them to the brim, clearing enough space on the floor that can walk around freely. They could clean it up all night, replace the broken lamps, stuff the padding back into the cushions but Patsy’s as it was, would never be again. 

There is no saving it. 

Patsy’s would get its funeral like every other relic from the fifties and that would be it. No grand reopening, no one swooping in to save the day. Another twenty people out of jobs just like any other day for those in poverty, especially those in the back of the yards, but Mickey feels the weight of that responsibility. It’s what keeps his hands shaking as he catches his reflection in the flood lights, his face morphed by the broken glass. He’s exhausted again, his cheeks slightly sunken in from the little he’s consumed other than beer and Mickey can’t seem to pinpoint which version of him is the real one. 

The sober one or the drunk. 

It’s nearing 2AM when Ian comes back from dumping the bags, his shirt coated in bits of dust and oil and a sheen of sweat along his forehead. “It might be too late to take the L back to yours.”

“Don’t really want to go back anyway,” Mickey admits as he lays back on one of the only remaining booths, looking up at the ceiling as his fingers pick at a loose bit of foam poking out from the seam. 

“We can camp out here. Sleep for a few hours before going to mine,” Ian offers and he takes the other side of the booth, mirroring the same position—both of them staring up into nothing. 

“Could get murdered,” Mickey jokes loosely. 

Ian picks up on it quickly, chuckling lowly as the booth squeaks from under him. “I’d fight for you.”

“More like me saving your ass,” he counters, able to laugh for only a second before it bubbles away. 

In the dark, Ian’s head shifts at the same time as Mickey’s and they meet eyes, sharing secret words between them for only a brief moment. 

Ian smiles, barely a fraction of lip lifting but it’s there. “Just get some sleep, Milkovich.”

Mickey breaks the eye contact first, closing his eyes and turning so he’s facing the ceiling again. “Whatever you say, Gallagher.”

The other side of the booth squeaks again, the last noise before it all fades out. Sleep takes Mickey over faster than he expects, washing over him in a matter of minutes. Maybe it was the lull of Ian’s eyes on him long after he turned away but the exhaustion triples, tossing him into a deep sleep that carries him all the way to morning. 

It’s the sound of scraping that wakes Mickey instead of the morning sun, causing him to jolt upward and knock his forehead into the edge of the booth’s table. “Motherfucker,” he groans, his fingers cradling the point of impact. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Ian calls out in a hushed tone and it’s with hazy eyes that Mickey sees him on the other side of the counter, awake and alert with Sean. 

In the light of day, their boss is more corpse than human with the pale hue to his skin and the darkening patches under his eyes but Mickey is really in no place to talk. Ian hands over the keys and Sean sighs, lightly punching the counter with his fist. “You two go home, get some rest. I’ve got it here.”

Ian stops to watch Sean carefully, his brows meeting toward the middle of his forehead. “You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah. Go deal with your brother.”

Lip? 

Mickey thinks to ask but his head swarms, buzzes so loudly that it’s all drowned out and replaced by nothing. A true vacancy of his brain. Instead he instinctively looks toward the clock that hangs above the window, only to find it broken, smashed just like everything else. 

“What time is it?” he asks out loud and Sean is already gone to the back room, leaving him alone with Ian again. 

“It’s still early,” Ian half answers, scooting his way around to the partition seal separating the dining room from the counter. 

For a brief fraction of time, it’s nearly normal. In his state of half unconsciousness, Mickey can pretend that nothing happened and it’s just another day—another day of flipping burgers and bickering, just the way it should be. But he sits up and the illusion is gone, disappearing as soon as the destruction is cast in the morning light. 

It only serves to reinforce what Mickey already knows. This reads Terry Milkovich from all angles. No matter which way he slices it, the answer is always the same. It rushes his blood through his veins like lava, combines his fear and his rage into a sick combination of boldness that he shouldn’t have. What he wants is to strangle Terry with his own bare hands but then—who would be left to punish Mickey for his own part? 

“Should head home. Change clothes or something,” Mickey tells Ian groggily, getting to his feet and only half-heartedly smoothing out his shirt. 

Ian nods, leaning against the counter and making no move to stop him. His eyes are elsewhere, his mind even farther away from the looks of it. “Meet me back at the house?” Ian asks him, watching Mickey get up before moving into his space. 

“Yeah, later.” 

Another nod but then Ian is casting a glance and then another behind him, waiting a beat before reaching out to brush his fingers up against Mickey’s hand. “It’ll be okay.”

Mickey snorts because that’s typical Ian—Ian who thinks there’s still a way out. “You know the more you say that, the less I fucking believe you,” he says but without malice in the delivery. 

“Yeah well, you’re gonna have to trust me.” Ian licks over his lips once, offering another quick brush of hands. “Be there later. Please.”

“Yeah.” 

And that’s the best Mickey has and Ian graciously accepts it, stepping back and heading to grab his stuff out of the back that he long since discarded. Mickey takes the chance and steps around the remaining debris, back into the shattered pieces of his world that remained outside Patsy’s. 

The Southside might as well be a ghost town this time of the morning. There’s hardly anyone out of their house, not even the homeless are out and collecting, and every step on the way back to his apartment echoes back. It’s the desolation that really gets to him, teases him with the loneliness. 

He’s one of the only people on the L minus the few that call the train car their home. The tracks rattle until his ears throb and as twisted as it is, Mickey’s body craves the sweet numbness of alcohol. Anything that will sedate from having to keep hearing all the noise. It eases up when he gets to his stop, the five minute walk passing by in a blur. 

All he wants is a shower, his bed, a beer, something that harkens back to some kind of normalcy but he isn’t sure that’s really anymore. If normalcy was something he ever had. Mickey digs around in his pockets for his keys when a shrill tone cuts through the otherwise vacant air. 

“Tell me what the hell is going on. Right now.” Sandy cuts through his fog and she’s grinding her boots in the dirt, her hair scraggly and her shirt wrinkled and lived in as if she hasn’t slept all night. She leaves no space for Mickey to answer, every comment coming like a slap—one after the other. “And I don’t want to hear that it’s nothing or I won’t understand or that you’ll handle it because I’m so fucking tired of you lying to me, Mickey. I’m tired. So say it or I’ll drag it out of you but I’m not leaving without answers.”

It was really only a matter of time before Sandy broke, Mickey knows that. All of the twists and turns he’s put her through and finally she’s saying it, carving into him for every way he’s wronged her without wanting to. 

Her eyes are blazing with rage, her fists curled so defensively that Mickey is shocked she hasn’t broken one or more of his bones in the span of his silence. 

“Debbie told me about Patsy’s so you better start talking. I swear to fucking God, Mickey.”

Mickey grinds his teeth so hard that his neck spasms and he closes his eyes briefly, trying to hold in the way the shame starts to come for him. Lying to her isn’t an option anymore, hiding from her isn’t an option and it never should have been.

He sucks in a breath and prepares himself for her reaction because everyone wants the truth until it’s not what they want to hear. “Started working for Terry again. Same as before.”

Sandy blinks, her already pursed mouth drawing up until it’s nearly invisible. “The drugs?”

All he gives her is a curt nod, pressing his back against the door to his apartment. 

“The fucking drugs, Mickey,” she repeats incredulously, nearly choking on the words. “So what? He did that? Terry busted down Patsy’s?”

“Looks like it.” He mutters. “Don’t know who else would.”

Sandy casts her eyes off to the distance, her hands on her hips and she keeps pushing her shoes into the dirt until it piles around the edge of her boots. “What did you do?”

The age old question. 

“Skipped out on a run for my birthday,” Mickey admits and he drops his keys into his pocket, walking in a circle around Sandy. 

That only causes her to pucker even more but she follows his instincts and soon, they’re two animals—just like the rest of their family. “Are you out?”

It’s an accusation and he deserves it but he throws his hands up anyway, his own heart burning up. “I was trying, Sandy. Jesus.”

“Bullshit,” Sandy throws his own words back in his face, taking two large steps closer to him. She sours in anger but she doesn’t hit him. Yet. “You’ve been too scared to quit. You’re just a coward who won’t admit it.”

Mickey’s defenses kick in and he barks before thinking, “Fuck you. Don’t act like you know shit.”

His cousin doesn’t take the words on the chin and lashes right back. “I know that you keep standing in your own way. Or are you going to tell me I’m wrong?” Sandy questions, pushing her hand into his shoulder until she knocks him back a step. “Finally. You and I have something good. We’ve got jobs, roofs over our heads, friends. The cops aren’t on our asses for once. What are you trying to fuck it all up for? Terry? He’s a useless prick. He’s not worth it.”

She’s right but hearing the words spoken out loud, knocks him backwards. He and Sandy don’t do this, they never do this, but after years, maybe they have to. 

“What was I supposed to do?” Mickey steadies himself, his vocal cords straining not to yell. “I don’t have a choice.”

But Sandy doesn’t stop. “And when you get caught, huh? What then, you asshole?” Sandy’s voice cracks and she shoves at Mickey’s chest again with a mix of anger and desperation, her nostrils flaring. “When are you going to stop letting Terry do this to you?”

Mickey is stunned at the emotional breakdown of his cousin because they _never_ do this, never take their hardships out on each other because they share so many in common. But they’re both losing their grip for different reasons, helpless idiots with no direction and without realizing it, Mickey was dragging Sandy along for the ride. 

A pool of tears builds up just along the brim of her eyelid but she blinks it away furiously, sniffling once as she curls her fist so tightly that her knuckles turn a ghostly white. “You’ve been so happy, Mick. Happier than I’ve ever seen you. Don’t ruin it.”

Her words cut deep and a lump forms in his throat, cutting off his air supply. Mickey croaks out, “Yeah well it’s been pretty ruined already.” His eyes prickle and he holds whatever threatens to spill so tightly that the veins in his neck pulse. 

A white knuckle presses into Sandy’s eye and it comes away glistening. “What are you going to do?”

What was he going to do? Good question. Mickey thought about it, rolled around the options before this moment but now it’s admitting defeat. 

“Thought about...going to the cops.” His words have a sting behind them, a hiss to the inflection but more toward the action than his cousin. 

Sandy watches him and her expression slowly changes from anger into disbelief. “Turning yourself in? Again? Are you crazy?” 

“I’ll get less for coming clean.” 

A scoff. “You can’t just give up.”

“I’m not giving up. I’m fixing it,” Mickey argues, more sure of his reasoning now that he’s actually said it out loud. “Look, we’ll talk about it later. I can’t—I need time, okay?”

Mickey looks away before his cousin can fix her dangerous gaze on him again, darting around her to head back where he came from. He’s running away, no other way about it but the pressure is back. The noise is deafening to the point that Mickey actually can’t take it anymore. He can't do it anymore. 

He’s only a couple steps away when Sandy stomps loudly, practically screaming at his back. “Don’t you walk away from me. We’re not done.” But he doesn’t stop and she cries out to him, just like she did as a kid. Just like she did when he had to leave her behind. “Mickey. Mickey!”

It takes all his willpower to drown her out, because he just can’t do this. Not Patsy’s, not her, not every fucked up thing he’s done and will do. He can’t do this all right now, maybe not at all and his lungs expand to the point of bursting. The weights are back on his shoulders and Ian can’t fix that. No one can fix it. 

As he reaches the sidewalk, he expects to hear Sandy’s boots stomping through the gravel until she smacks the back side of his head. She’ll call him an idiot, an asshole, a prick with no brains and then make him promise to tell her later or not to do something stupid but he gets ten feet down the road, then twenty, thirty, fifty, a hundred and she doesn’t come. It’s tempting to look over his shoulder to see if she’s still standing in that driveway, if the tears are still streaming down her face but Mickey can’t. He won’t. 

He just keeps walking. The path is muscle memory at this point that it gives Mickey the opportunity to shut off. He doesn’t focus on the other people on the street or the passengers on the L. He clears his thoughts of Sandy’s watery gray eyes and the pleading strain to her voice, mostly because he can’t bear to relive it. 

All this time, Mickey thought that he’d repay Sandy by getting her some money, maybe buying her a new car, helping her move somewhere halfway fucking decent but it dawns on him that maybe he’ll never be able to do that. He can’t buy fancy presents or make promises but he can end this. He can make this all stop. 

The L reaches the familiar station and Mickey takes the long way around to Honan until the browning grass of the Gallagher household comes into view. The closer he gets, the more he notices the slight changes. There’s no screaming coming from inside, Debbie’s voice isn’t ringing out to get Franny to come back inside, Carl and Liam aren’t bickering over the cereal, Lip isn’t out on the front porch waiting with a newly cracked beer in hand, and Ian isn’t there to smile at him, to breathe life into him. 

And fuck, it’s all his fault. 

It calls into question everything that Mickey feared. Exactly why he didn’t get involved, all the reasons he never got close to anyone outside his family. Milkoviches only brought destruction. All the good comes with a price and now he’s paying it ten fold. His birthday feels like a distant past he barely has a handle on and Mickey hasn’t had anything to lose in a long time but now he’s losing it. 

He’s going to lose _him_.

Mickey approaches the stairs to the Gallagher house and he stares up at the cracking white paint on the fitted slats, the crooked wood of the porch and he’s back to July 4th—when he chose to let these people into his life, when he chose to be a better man and damn it, Mickey still wants to be that better man. But the walls are closing in, his options are limited, and he’ll be damned if he takes anyone else down with him. 

Mickey just hopes that they know. He needs them to know. 

That he’s sorry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, I didn't think this was a cliffhanger but I was well informed that indeed it is - to which I'm very sorry but it must be done. The next chapter is going to have more finality to it, I can promise that. Again, thank you to everyone who reads/will read this, you’re wonderful. 
> 
> come talk to me at:  
> [@s11mikhailo](https://twitter.com/s11mikhailo) \- twitter // [xgoldendays](https://xgoldendays.tumblr.com) \- tumblr //  
> [s11mikhailo](https://curiouscat.qa/s11mikhailo) \- curiouscat


	18. The Chain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again everyone, it's been a while and I'll be honest - I never expected to take this long to write a single chapter but it's funny how life works sometimes. I can't plan for the lows, only work through them, and while it did take a long time I'm finally here to present this chapter to you. It's going to end this "act" so to speak and when we pick up next time, we'll be doing a little time skip. Until then, thank you for all for waiting and for supporting this fic - it means the world to me.
> 
> as always I owe everything to[ heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor) and [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse) because they put up with me for almost two months, crying on and off about this chapter and how I didn't think I could do it but I made it here with big help from them. AND my eight friends who I would die for.

Most of the Gallagher clan is gathered around the table when Mickey walks in. 

He spent the greater half of ten minutes working up the courage to even move toward the house but when he does, the door squeaks to announce his entrance and in the too quiet space, it causes all the Gallaghers to look in his direction at the same time. Carl and Liam barely spare a few seconds before they’re off and up the stairs, Franny clinging to Carl’s back. From the head of the table, Fiona is glaring in their direction, clearly sending them a signal to get out. 

Once the youngest are out of sight, Mickey finally notices the way they’ve gathered - eerily calm in a house that was built on chaos. Debbie sits near the back door, her feet propped up on another chair as she flips through the phone book with her lips so tightly pressed together that the skin pulls white around the edges. Fiona sighs and she gestures Mickey over, pulling out a chair next to hers. 

He waits a beat before taking up the offer, his posture rigid when he catches the bruises cascading over Fiona’s cheeks. They color the skin in a tie dye pattern of blue, red, and yellow - a sickly tinge that crawls toward her eye socket. 

“You doing okay?” Fiona asks abruptly, her fingertips curling around a mug of what looks like coffee. 

Mickey scoffs, teetering his chair back slightly on its rear legs. “Should be asking you that.” 

“I’ll survive. Not my first black eye and won’t be my last.” She shrugs, taking a quick sip of the warm liquid. There’s no hesitation in the vibrato of her voice, no fear laced in the back of her throat. “Sean’s gonna file with the insurance company. See if they can’t get him something for the damages.”

It should be a comforting thought but it just flicks that old reliable bile up from his stomach, his swallow tasting sour. “Good,” he manages to get out, twisting his hands around to idly crack his knuckles.

He doesn’t know what else to say. Not sure there are words that might bring some sort of comfort so he doesn’t try. ‘Sorry’ doesn’t seem like it would cut it and what would it change? It wouldn’t take away the loss, the bruises, the finality of the only steady thing he’s had going in his life. No, sorry just wouldn’t cut it. 

But he is. He’s so sorry.

Debbie’s chair skids along the linoleum as she gets up, a torn page of the phone book balled up in her palm. She heads toward the receiver hanging on the wall, tugging on the cord until she can disappear with it around the corner. 

The questions are on the tip of his tongue but the somber cloud in the room keeps Mickey from asking. Fiona’s eyes follow Debbie, darting and unsettled, while she brings the mug back up to her lips. 

“It’s been a rough night.” It’s the most clarification Fiona offers and Mickey is sure there is no bigger understatement. “They’re upstairs.”

Mickey blames that motherly instinct on her pointed comment and he hums under his breath, staring down at the dirt that’s accumulated beneath his fingernails, though the urge to look toward the staircase is overwhelming. 

“He okay?” It's an open question and Mickey isn’t even completely sure which man he’s referring to when he says it. 

Fiona picks up the cue anyway, thoughtfully chewing on the inside of her cheek before answering. “Found him out in the alleyway on the way back from the hospital. Trashed.”

There’s something sick about how the news coats Mickey’s tongue with the phantom taste of barley, his palm sensing the slickly cool glass pressed up against it. It’s fucking sick, is what it is but that doesn’t stop his ache for the numbness. 

“You okay if I—” Mickey starts, angling his head toward the stairs. 

Fiona still clutches at the porcelain mug, her posture making her seem smaller than normal. “Yeah, go for it. He’ll be happy to see you.” 

Again, Mickey isn’t sure which ‘he’ they’re referring to. 

Mickey offers her a quick and polite nod, pushing away from the table and crossing the short distance toward the staircase. Debbie’s mumbles catch on the very edge of his hearing as he makes his way up but none of the words register — only the urgency in them. He tries not to let that fact twist his guts any further and he focuses on the creak of each wooden step under the weight of his boots. 

It’s a quick walk up and Mickey sees the door to the boys room propped open, the faint sound of a record playing filtering out. He stops on the very last step, his palms suddenly sweating enough that they leave a light sheen on his jeans when he wipes them. He shouldn’t be nervous, shouldn’t be bearing such a weight but he’s thrown their lives into a chaos they weren’t prepared for. That part is on him. 

Mickey exhales and closes in on the room, letting his shoulder bump into the door frame to give away his presence. At first glance the room is almost exactly the way he remembers it from weeks ago but now there are extra mounds of clothes strewn across the floor and bottles of painkillers with various labels set near the edge of Ian’s bedside table. If he tried, maybe squinted just right, Mickey could pretend this is normal. 

But then his eyes fall on the bed where Lip is curled in on himself, angled toward the window in a half crunched ball. There’s a meekness to his form, a vulnerable bubble surrounding him and when Mickey really looks, there’s a slight shiver in the man’s bones that causes him to twitch every couple of seconds. 

“Hey. You came,” Ian speaks from where he’s resting back on Carl’s bed, his knees tucked up under his body. A book lays open in his lap, the pages folded over to mark his place. 

Mickey tears his eyes away from Lip and he swallows thickly, scratching at a spot just behind his left ear. “Said I would.”

There’s a brief lift of his lips and Ian drops the book at the edge of the bed as he gets up, his bones cracking when he straightens. When their eyes meet, Mickey can tell there’s things they both have — Want? Need? — to say but Lip shivers again and the timing is off. 

Ian shifts from foot to foot, gaze dropping to his brother before coming back to Mickey. “I’ll leave you guys to it.” He tells him, coming close enough to brush shoulders with Mickey as he leaves. 

It’s a harsh reality but these meetings with Lip are becoming a twisted flip book depicting a downward spiral and every page gets progressively worse until Lip is more of a hollow casing of a man than the sturdy backbone everyone built up in their heads. It goes without saying that it’s hard to see Lip like this. To see his friend like this. 

Mickey exhales and he finds an empty spot at the end of the mattress to sit down, his thigh bumping into Lip’s foot. “You look like shit,” he announces, an awkward attempt to ease into the conversation. 

The jab is met with another squeak of the mattress and Lip turns to look at him with those reddened eyes, pale against the darkened skin around them. 

“Yeah, same to you.” He chuckles but it’s hollow, an act that Lip turns on when he’s cornered. They have that in common. “He tell you?” Lip jerks his head toward the door where Ian’s footsteps can still be heard retreating down the steps. 

Mickey shrugs. “Fiona.”

It’s a good enough answer that Lip only sniffs, kicking at Mickey’s leg to get him to scoot over so he can swing himself over the side of the bed into a seated position. He jerks the drawer of the night table roughly to get it to open, exposing a mess of pocket knives, lighters, and old business cards. It takes some digging but a smashed roach finds its way between Lip’s fingers. 

“He’s been babysitting for hours. Keeping me on a diet of water and his shitty granola bars.” Lip grumbles half heartedly and out of the same drawer, he produces a lighter, flicking it and lighting the tip of his joint. 

Mickey watches silently as the smoke fills the room and Lip visibly relaxes though his skin carries a pale blue under the surface, his appearance almost gaunt. They sit there like that — Lip doesn’t offer Mickey any of the pot and Mickey doesn’t ask for it. If it were any other day of any other month, they’d have a beer over this, a whiskey for the harder days but Lip doesn’t need it and it’s wrong of Mickey to crave it. 

Lip takes another hit and lowers his hand onto his knees while it trembles gently but uncontrollably. His lips part and his breaths are shallow as he speaks. “I’m gonna go away for a while.” His eyes come up to meet Mickey’s though they fall back to the ground eventually. “Use those veterans' benefits while I still got them.”

Mickey’s brows quirk together, the lines around his nose becoming more prominent as if he’s preparing for the impact. “How long?” 

“Six weeks. Give or take.” Lip concedes and his words wobble with a coating of shame. “I’m gonna settle things with Brad first, make sure everyone’s good around here and then... go, I guess.”

And then the second punch lands. First, Patsy’s and now Lip. Mickey takes the invisible beatings and holds in the pain, barely winces as they keep on hitting. 

Mickey wants to tell him not to go, that places like that are bullshit and don’t actually give a fuck about men barely above the poverty line who spend their money on boozing or maybe that he just doesn’t want to lose his friend. Lose someone who might actually understand what it’s like for him but he stops because without this, they might all lose him anyway. 

And maybe it’s not his fault but fuck, doesn’t it feel like it is. 

He reaches over hesitantly and drops a hand on Lip’s shoulder. They aren’t men of many words and that’s okay. That’s all they have. Lip actually manages a dry chuckle and he finally lifts his hand to offer Mickey the joint — barely half of it left at this point. He takes it but he doesn’t bring it to his lips, just lets it burn out between his fingers until he can feel it stinging his skin. 

They stay quiet again, mostly supported by the shuffling of the sheets when they move but unlike Mickey, Lip has more on his mind. 

“You’ll look out for him, right?” Lip asks him, leaning back as he removes the joint from Mickey’s hand and casually hits it again.

Lip is his friend. One of the only ones but Mickey can’t tell him the truth. He can’t tell him about Ian, about what they’ve been doing or that he doesn’t know where he’ll be in a week from today. Lip is his friend but he can’t tell him that. He can’t even bring himself to think of the words himself. 

So Mickey tells him the only truth he can admit too. The thing he knows he will do. “Yeah, man. Course I will.”

It takes them another ten minutes for Lip to finish the joint and for Ian to stick his head into the room, saying Fiona made breakfast. His first Gallagher breakfast and yet when Mickey sits at the table with them, he can’t help but feel like an intruder. A fraud. 

He takes the seat that Fiona occupied earlier and he rubs at his eyes — the exhaustion of a restless night sleep finally kicking in — while Lip falls into the spot to his left, nursing a cup of coffee that Fiona placed in front of him. Carl takes a seat at the far end of the table with Liam just behind, the pair of them still going off about something that Mickey can’t quite catch. Debbie comes back from the living room with her sheet of phone book paper scribbled all over with a blue pen - names and numbers in illegible writing.

Ian takes the last remaining seat to Mickey’s right, a newspaper tucked under his arm and a pen slotted into the space behind his ear. Mickey watches him unfold if, revealing several adverts circled — their numbers underlined a handful of times. 

“Already started the job search.” Ian mutters but in good humor when he catches Mickey staring. Not even 24 hours and it hits Mickey again that not only is Fiona out of a job but so is Ian. The fact isn’t quite as hefty as a punch but it’s a mighty fine slap to the face. 

Mickey nervously rubs his hands over his jeans again when they clam up but from underneath the table, he feels a much calmer hand envelop his own, squeezing gently. His elbow knocks into the table when he jerks back but no one seems to notice as Fiona rounds the table with a bowl of eggs that she places square in the middle. 

“Eat. All of you.” Fiona orders them, handing paper plates across the table but her eyes are solely on Lip when she speaks. “Food, Lip. I’m not asking.”

Mickey can nearly hear Lip’s teeth grating but he reaches for the spoon just the same, taking his turn at heaving eggs onto a plate. The Gallagher’s swarm on the food like flies until Mickey is left with the scraps, dragged into a plate by Ian with this smile that cracks him further. 

Breakfast isn’t much, just the eggs, burnt bacon, and a few spare slices of toast but that’s not what kills Mickey’s appetite. It’s the way that the elephant in the room is planted firmly on Mickey’s chest and no one notices but him. 

A gust of warm breath passes by his ear and Mickey turns his head a fraction to find Ian leaned in close, speaking barely above a whisper. 

“They had their yelling match earlier. You missed it,” Ian explains, somehow reading Mickey’s mind. 

“That go well?”

He shrugs as he grabs his piece of toast — the bottom half a crisped brown. “Better than you’d think.”

Mickey nods and drops that part of the conversation there. He wants to know, maybe somewhat desperately so, but it’s not his place. Just knowing that he sparked some chain of events makes him sick enough. 

The table is nearly done tearing apart their meal — Debbie already gone upstairs with Franny — when Ian flips out the newspaper again with an exasperated sigh. Mickey peers over Ian’s shoulder without thinking, his head resting in the palm of his hand. 

“Got to meet with Larry to see where they’ll assign me.”

Ian doesn’t look up, scribbling another circle around an ad for something about bus transportation. “It can’t be that bad, right? He likes you enough.”

Or Larry knows what happened, figure out the shit he’s in, and turns him in. But Mickey doesn’t say that. “Or I could be hauling meat chunks down at the processing plant.”

“Doubt it. You need more height for that.” 

And that’s what Mickey likes about Ian — that he can find a way to make even the lowest points seem so high in comparison to all the times Mickey existed without him. 

“Yeah, fuck you too,” Mickey manages a laugh and they settle down then, the voices of all the Gallagher’s fading to idle chatter as they all leave one by one to go about their day. 

Lip slaps Mickey on the back before heading back to his room and Fiona clears his plate with a supportive smile. It’s quiet except for the scratch of Ian’s pen and the running water of the sink that it leaves too much room for Mickey to think, to overprocess, to analyze. If only Mickey could turn things back to a month ago when he felt like one of them, maybe then it wouldn’t hurt this much. 

Before Fiona can finish up, Mickey is clearing his throat and making up an excuse to leave — something about needing to run errands but it’s all bullshit. Maybe they realize it too but Ian only smiles, nodding thoughtfully while Fiona tells him a quick ‘sure, don’t be a stranger.’

He says his goodbyes and he skirts around the dining table toward the back, not looking back but flinching when the door slams from how hard he closes it. Mickey goes down the steps and around to the front, nearly bumping into the chain link fence as he turns. 

For a good ten minutes, Mickey lets his muscle memory guide him home, not paying much mind to time or people or places. All he can think of is broken glass, bruised skin, forced smiles, and a growing wall between who he is and what he wants — the two things never seeming more distant. 

Maybe that's why he stops at the liquor store on the first corner he reaches. Maybe that’s why he picks up a pack of cigarettes, a six pack, and carries it on the L back to his apartment. Rinse and repeat. But no, he’s not the same as Lip when he cracks open the first one and down it in less than ten minutes — he’s not. 

It’s not the same for him. 

\--

The next morning, Mickey sleeps in until well past noon, the events of the day prior finally taking their toll on him enough that he couldn’t force himself to stay alert. He rolls over onto his side and grabs the beer bottle he left abandoned on the bedside table, letting the room temperature remnants slide their way down his throat. It’s not as comforting as he wishes it was. 

Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, Mickey knocks his toe against another bottle scattered on the carpeting, watching it roll until it collided with another just by the bathroom door. A six pack and some made its way into his bloodstream, enough to dilute his constant thoughts of Ian, Lip, Sandy, and what exactly he’s meant to do now. 

Maybe he’s convinced himself that if he drinks enough, it’ll go away or maybe it will stop him from having to live in this hellish existence. Maybe for a while, maybe forever. He isn’t quite as sure about that part. 

Mickey leaves the bottles in their spots on the floor, ignoring how they’ve left stains in his carpet — the alcohol reeking as he heads into the kitchen. He bypasses the bathroom entirely, opting to splash his face in the kitchen sink instead. It’s just a few degrees above room temperature but it wakes him up enough that he notices the disarray left in his living room. Chip bags, wrappers, crumbs, and several more bottles decorating his coffee table. 

The problem with being a drunk asshole is you never realize the mess you’ve made until the damage is done.

It’s getting easier to ignore it though, pretend it isn’t happening at all. Because it’s not a problem. Mickey knows what his problems are and he’s not like Lip — alcohol is not his problem. He yanks the door to the fridge open that it almost smacks against the wall and maybe it’s on instinct or maybe it’s just the universe mocking him but when he reaches in to grab something for breakfast, his hand finds the cool metal of a can instead of the neighboring carton of eggs right beside it. 

But alcohol isn’t his problem. His laundry list of problems never leaves his mind — an invisible checklist that he ticks off. His dad, the drugs, prison, Ian, Sandy.

Sandy.

Her words from the day before play back in his head and just like the beer seeping into his carpet, they’re dangerous reminders of what his reality is shaping up to be. A reality that he isn’t sure he’s ready to face. In annoyance, Mickey pushes the door closed again with nothing in his grip and reaches for an old box of cereal taking up space on the top of the fridge. It reads ‘fruit colored o’s’ and they’re at least a week old, brittle and losing their color but Mickey digs in anyway, shoving fistfuls into his mouth on the way to the couch. 

Go to prison. Lose another handful of years off of his life. Start over _again_. Wipe the slate clean. Hope that the Gallaghers forget about him. Pretend his feelings for Ian don’t exist. 

But the decision is never as simple as it might appear on paper. The fact of the matter is, Mickey never combats his fear. He runs from it. The toughest guy on the Southside and all he’s ever learned was how to run. Every punch, every curse, every threat — they’re all different forms of hiding because the Milkoviches didn’t give in to emotions, they didn’t give into desires, they mask it all with anger. Mickey is his father’s son, as sad and as pathetic as it is. 

The only thing that’s clear though, the one part of the story that Mickey can get right is Sandy. Sandy doesn’t deserve to end up like him. 

As he throws himself off the couch with a thud, Mickey reaches for the phone with sugar crystals on the pads of his fingers. He presses it to his ear and turns the dial, having to strain a bit in his memory to remember the Milkovich number. They could barely afford to keep the phone on the hook when he was a kid, he wasn’t sure if now was any different. 

Eventually the line clicks through and the drone of the ringing is hollow against his ear drum. Every ring sends panic through his system, a venomous burning in his bloodstream but he powers through it and waits for someone to pick up on the other line. 

Ring. Ring. Ring. 

At least four more rings before the line clicks and goes dead, the ringing being replaced by the empty noise until it blares at him to hang up. He brings the phone down slowly, stares at it before sliding it back into place. Most of the assholes in that place never pick up a phone, barely know how to use one but even that rationalization doesn’t sit well in his stomach. 

He finishes off the box and launches it into the trash pile from his spot on the couch, not bothering to get up. The phone finds its way into his hand again and he’s dialing more eagerly this time, his tension already flaring. In all their bickering, he didn’t think about what they’d do to Sandy. If they had the guts to even try. 

_Someone answer the damn phone_ , he thinks to himself. Colin, Joey — he doesn’t give a shit as long as they tell him where Sandy is. 

It’s on the third ring that the call gets answered and the swearing in the background is the first sound he hears — Colin’s, his dad’s, and a thicker sounding voice that almost rings familiar. 

“Yeah, hello,” Sandy croaks out, half muffled as the yelling fades into the background. 

“Where the hell were you?” Mickey harps on her the second she speaks, sounding more like her dad than her cousin. 

“Oh, it’s you.” Her eye roll can be heard through the phone and she pauses, huffing and puffing. “I was ignoring you, obviously. It’s my new pastime.”

“Really?”

“You know, Jamie almost answered. You’re lucky,” Sandy grumbles. “What do you want?”

The voices in the background get louder and more insistent, a mix of languages that Mickey can only make out vaguely. He hasn’t heard Terry speak a vowel of Ukranian in years but he knows enough to understand it. 

“Who’s there?” he asks, straining his ears to make out something in fucking English. 

“No one.”

The sound is silenced by the closing of a door and Mickey hears Sandy exhale somewhat in relief when the lock clicks into place. It does little to nothing to ease the already expanding concern Mickey is trying his best to stifle. 

“Come on, Sandy,” he pleads with her — something he’s never done with her. Not ever. “I’m not going to the cops.”

The line goes quiet for a minute except for some footsteps and the squeak of a mattress and when Sandy gets back on, her tone is infinitely more gentle. “What do you want then?”

Mickey reaches under the coffee table for his shoes, sliding the filthy pair onto his feet with the phone balanced on his shoulder. There’s a very big chance he’s being a fool and finding some courage inside of himself that’s not real, only manufactured in the moment but he says it anyway with conviction. “Pack your shit.”

\--

When Mickey looks back on it, he’s not sure if the Milkovich house was ever really a home. At least not after his mother left him. After that, it became more of a building built on fear, on pain, on holding Mickey hostage and from the second he set foot in Chicago after everything he went through, he told himself he’d never go back. He wiped the slate clean on that time of his life but now he’s weaved his way in again and there is no turning back. 

It takes an hour of telling himself that it’s nothing, that a house can’t hurt him, for Mickey to actually get moving. He takes the scenic route there, going down the ever-familiar back end of Homan until he crosses the two blocks to the street that the Milkovich property stands on. It’s a section of Chicago he’s ignored for months now, taking all the routes around it just to avoid it and yet now he’s only minutes away from it. 

Mickey passes by his old neighbors, the crackheads who live on the corner in their own condemned house, and they watch him from their porch with interested eyes. The last lone Milkovich coming home to roost. It’s another half a block before he sees it, the same old tattered roof and the yard full of their belongings — half of it stolen and the other half the few decrepit remains of Mickey’s childhood. 

It’s fleeting, the fraction of time before the fear gets him, but it’s a friendly reminder of everything he sought to keep away as he follows the fence to the front door. The Torino is parked halfway into the overgrown grass and from a broken window, Mickey can hear a few male voices cackling in the distance. 

That used to be him and maybe it still is but that doesn’t stop Mickey from pushing his way through, kicking some odd car parts away to approach the front door. It’s not surprising to find it unlocked and it creaks as Mickey pushes it open, tasting the grime coming off the floorboards as he walks in. 

Not much about it is different and it’s a time warp back to the ‘60s — a time capsule of dysfunction. The couch is still an off-white, stained with black smudges from shoes and unwashed jeans, there are piles of clothes pushed into corners, unwashed plates on tables, cigarettes butts overflowing in an ashtray by the front door, and directly ahead — a sign on a door that says ‘stay the fuck out’ in Mickey’s shitty handwriting. 

The spot transfixes him and he remembers the last time he left, packed up his shit in search for something better, only to circle back to the same start. Maybe younger Mickey would be ashamed of him. Maybe he’d think he was a fool; he’d probably be right. 

Mickey keeps his steps light as he passes through the hallway, angling his head into the living room where there seems to be no one. It’s enough of a go-ahead and Mickey heads to the door closest to his room, rattling the knob until it comes open. 

Sandy is elbow deep in her duffel bag, shoving her patterned sweaters and bell bottoms deep into the sack but the slight breeze from Mickey’s entrance causes her to jump out of her skin — her knee banging into her bed frame. 

“What did I say about knocking?!” Sandy yells and Mickey shuts the door behind him, leaping forward to cover her mouth with his hand. 

“What are you always yelling for, huh?”

Sandy’s hand grips his wrist and wretches it back so she can speak, her features flickering with annoyance. “You scared me, you freak.”

“What did you want me to do? Call?” Mickey reaches around for her duffel, shoving the rest of her stuff in hastily. He pushes it against her chest and Sandy grunts, shoving Mickey for good measure. “Get your shit and get the car running.” 

“Terry left but the guys are still out there,” Sandy mentions, hiking the duffel over her shoulder. 

And there’s the slightest hint of disappointment in Mickey that he can’t spit directly in his father’s face but that was another battle for another day. Terry Milkovich would get his. Mickey made that a promise. 

With Sandy flanking him from behind, Mickey walks out first and waits for Sandy in the hall — only sparing one brief look 

“Look who it is, boys.” From the kitchen comes Colin, a bottle poised in his left hand and a nasty bruise over his left eye. Mickey can only take his best guess on where that came from. “You just missed dad but if you stick around, maybe we can have a family reunion.”

Just the sound of his brother speaking makes his skin crawl and Mickey snaps, hissing defensively. “Move out of my fucking way.”

“Or what?” Colin comes at him slowly, his chest only a few feet away from Mickey’s and he looks more like Terry every single day. “You and Sandy gonna kick our asses?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Mickey counters smugly, knowing exactly which buttons of Colin’s to push. 

Colin snarls at the comment and in true Milkovich fashion, he aims his fist straight for Mickey’s nose. The impact of bone against bone knocks Mickey back a few steps and the pain radiates up into his right cheek, blood already oozing from his nostrils. 

“Sandy, get the car,” Mickey strains through an aching jaw, pushing on her shoulder to get her moving and his hand leaves a streak of red on her shoulder. “Go get the damn car, Sandy!” He yelps when she doesn’t move but she nods, jolted by the force of his yelling. 

It’s when she’s out of the area that Mickey launches back at Colin, digging his knuckles into the already fresh bruise on his brother’s face. The older Milkovich hollers loudly, his back smacking the opposing wall and he clutches his eye, blood slowly sliding down his cheek. 

Both Jamie and Joey stand idly behind the wall that leads into the living room, half cloaked by the plaster frame. They’re ages away from the guys that curb stomped Mickey into the ground, nearly breaking his ribs for a chance to prove themselves. Mickey spits on the floor by Colin’s feet, leaving a dark red blood splatter in the carpet and he watches his brother fumble, one of his eyes already swelling. 

“You’re fucking dead.” From his back pocket, Colin produces a knife, not much bigger than a Swiss Army but definitely sizable enough to tear a good hole in flesh. He wields it clunkily like a kid and sometimes Mickey forgets that Colin isn’t that much older than him. 

His brother goes to launch at him, the knife glinting in the broken light hanging above them and Mickey braces himself to take the blow except it doesn’t land. No, when Mickey looks up, he sees Jamie grabbing onto Colin by the shoulder and yanking him back forcibly. 

“Colin, he’s had enough,” Jamie tells Colin and even as he strong arms him, pinning his hand behind his back, there’s a quality to Jamie’s voice that’s meek. 

“Let go of me, man. I’m finishing this.” Colin thrashes against Jamie’s hold but he keeps him steady, digging his heels into the ground. 

“You know what Terry said,” Jamie reminds him, snarling just as mighty as the pair of them — gruff enough that Colin backs up a step.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Mickey.” Colin spits out his own heaping of blood right beside Mickey’s and Mickey swears one of his teeth is barely hanging by a thread inside his mouth. He clicks the knife back into its holder and shoves Jamie off of him, the younger of the two colliding with the wall. 

The three men stare Mickey down as he gets up on his feet, his sleeves coated in red as he presses it up to his nose. His eyes lock with Jamie’s and there’s that look again — the same one as last time they saw each other — a look of regret. There’s no time to unpack it though and Mickey is out the door and down the steps before any of them change their mind about killing him. 

Just outside, Sandy bounces her leg inside of her Camaro, her hands clutching the steering wheel as she revs the engine for no good reason. 

“What now?” Sandy asks, though she’s just as shaky as him, swerving the car over two lanes without meaning to. 

If only it were that easy. If only Mickey had the answers to everything. 

“I wish I knew.” Mickey rests his throbbing head back against the headset, a fistful of napkins from the glove box pressed against his nose. “Didn’t plan much past the moving you out part.”

“Worked out real great if you ask me,” Sandy mocks him with complete sarcasm oozing off of her. 

“Yeah, I thought so too.” And all Mickey can manage is a laugh as Sandy drives them back to his apartment. They eat dinner in silence, clean up Mickey’s wounds, and they don’t talk about the fact that it’s so so far from over. 

\--

When Thursday rolls around, that’s when the nerves hit Mickey in the gut again. Things managed to stay quiet for a while with Mickey moving Sandy in and checking on Lip every other day but the point still stood that Mickey was broke and if he kept going at this rate, he and Sandy would be not only Milkovich traitors but homeless on top of it. So his meeting with his parole officer was more important than just signing paperwork and checking in. It was the only problem Mickey had that he could solve. 

The only rub was that as nice as Larry Seaver was and had been for the last few months, he was still just a hop and a skip away from actual law enforcement. One wrong word and he’d have Mickey carted off for something else — violation of probation, fighting, the strong whiff of alcohol that permeated his breath and his clothing. If he didn’t play his cards right, Mickey would go back to prison after promising Sandy the exact opposite. 

It’s five minutes to 10AM when Mickey is in the waiting room and three minutes to 10 when he’s called into Larry’s office. It’s either the lack of sleep or just another notice of Mickey’s bad luck but the man on the other side of the desk isn’t his usual chipper self. No overzealous greetings or silly family stories. Just — nothing. 

“Have a seat,” Larry tells him with a more stern voice than he’s used to when Mickey walks in, his eyes cast downwards as his pen scratches into his paper. 

Mickey does as he says and sits down in the oversized armchair, running his shaky hands over the tense fabric of his jeans. There’s a melancholy tune playing on the record player this time, a far cry from the disco that Larry is famous for at this point. 

Setting his pen down, Larry slides his eyeglasses down the bridge of his nose and peers at Mickey with something he can only akin to disappointment. “As you know, after the unfortunate incident at Patsy’s, you’ll have to be relocated to a new job immediately.” 

For a man that never really grew up with a father figure to scold him so much as bark orders at him, Larry’s tone impacts Mickey enough that he shrinks back, leaving his response as a nod. 

“Luckily for you, someone offered a position.” Larry shuffles a few stacks of papers until he finds a yellow slip tucked just under the base of his telephone, holding it up into the light with a squint. “Born Free Cycles. A spot has opened up and the owner requested you. Can you do repairs?”

Born Free. Of all the places in Chicago. Mickey blinks when the realization hits, gaping at Larry’s words like an idiot. “I - yeah, yeah. I can,” he stutters out in surprise, having to catch up to what this means. Why would Brad do him any favors? 

Lip Gallagher. That bastard. 

“Excellent.”

A few spots are filled in and Larry slides the slip over the desk toward Mickey, one of his fancy silver pens plopped on top. It’s when it’s there in black and white — his name, the place, all his information filled in that Mickey laughs in disbelief. He takes the pen and signs his name haphazardly over the line marked with a single ‘x’. 

Larry slides the paper back across his desk, filing it away while also leaning back in his pleather chair. His mouth is turned down to the point that it firms an upside down ‘U’ that aggressively shows off his years. “I take it you’re handling the situation that’s resulted in your face.”

Mickey looks down at his bruised knuckles, his pale skin, the dirt on his pants, remembers the dark circles under his eyes that have come back full force, and maybe Larry has a point. 

“Look, I can explain,” he starts, already thinking of an apology that might convince him. 

Larry raises a hand to silence him,taking his glasses off in the same motion and setting them off to the side. “No need, son.”

Mickey waits for the rest, for Larry to bust out laughing or call in the fuzz but he just rolls his chair over to the record player to flip the album to its b side. It changes to a thumping sound, the start of the song more momentous than the last. 

“You’re not gonna write that down or?” Mickey asks dumbly. 

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“Why?” he implores because Mickey is pretty sure he can’t take any more uncertainties than the ones he’s already carting around. 

“Because I don’t _want_ to send you back to prison, Mr. Milkovich.” Larry sighs, putting the needle down on a track Mickey recognizes as Fleetwood Mac. He waits for the song to start and then spins back to him, one hand massaging his temples. “Whatever you’re involving yourself in, I hope you end it soon. For your own good.”

The disappointment and concern is hard to miss and Mickey equates it to how it must be when a parent looks after their child.

Larry continues when Mickey doesn’t have anything to say, folding his hands over his stack of papers. “And I will warn you to tread carefully because freedom is a very precious thing. It’s easy to lose and hard to get back.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mickey mutters, defensively pushing his shoulders up toward his ears as he slouches forward. 

From the side of the desk, Larry picks up his glasses again and rests them on the top of his nose. He uses the tail end of his pen to point at Mickey, his face less stern and more neutral. “I have faith in you, Mr. Milkovich. Don’t prove me wrong.”

Mickey nods, running his hand along the armrests of his chair with a hesitant and forced half smile. “I’ll try not to.”

Larry sends him off early with a stack of paperwork and a schedule for his brand new job at Born Free Cycles that Mickey folds up and tucks into his back pocket. The advice Larry spouted weighs on his conscience and it’s a thought: what exactly the price of freedom is. 

That and Mickey reminds himself to call Lip out on his hero shit before the asshole leaves him. 

—

It’s the weekend before Mickey discovers enough guts to go to the Gallagher house again. Ever since that day with Lip and the run in with his family, Mickey finds himself wandering with no end in sight. No direction, no destination. He gets up, he eats, sleeps, he drinks. Over and over again. Every day without fail. The only difference is having Sandy on his ass, force feeding him pills and bread to help him maintain even a semblance of normalcy. 

He sees it in her eyes every time she wakes him up from a stupor or drags his ass into bed — the worry. But with every beer they throw away, comes another excuse, another reason why he needs a drink to take the edge off. Sandy grumbles and swears, smacks him upside the head every single day but she can’t stop him. Mickey is too stubborn for reason. Too stubborn to see what’s in front of him.

But he’s selfish and Mickey wants to see him. He wants to see Ian one last time before it’s over. Just before they flip the calendar to September, October, November and everything becomes a distant memory. If he doesn’t do it now, he probably would never find the courage again. Because Ian deserves better than this, better than him and it’s time to let go. Because Mickey knows now that he’s not any different than the man who left prison months ago or the kid back in the desert, and he can’t hold on to things he doesn’t deserve. 

It’s late in the afternoon when Mickey is sober enough to think straight and Sandy is in the kitchen, hovering over a cookbook she pilfered out of one of his neighbors’ trash cans. Its faded pages are open to a recipe for lasagna but it’s barely legible from where Mickey watches on the other side of the counter. 

“Why the fuck do we need to have fancy dinner?” Mickey wonders out loud, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee which is surprisingly his first cup of something non alcoholic in days. 

Sandy stays glued to the pages, her forehead crinkled toward the middle as she tries to read a word that only has half of its original letters intact. “Because we’re trying to be decent people. Decent people eat lasagna.”

“Who said that?” 

A pause and Sandy finally breaks her concentration, slamming the book closed with a grin. “Julia Child.”

Mickey sneers and he slides his mug around to the other side of the counter, leaning over the side of it. “You’ve lost your damn mind,” he berates her, his eyes half lidded from the lack of proper sleep. 

“Shut up. You’re gonna eat it anyway.”

The whole counter is filled with the spoils of Sandy’s last shopping trip and Mickey is sure this is the most full his kitchen has been in weeks. It took the last of Mickey’s paycheck from Patsy’s and half of Sandy’s from the rink but it got them a fridge of food, toiletries, and a brand new set of sheets for the bedroom since it now belonged to Sandy until further notice. 

“Pass me the cheese,” Sandy says, waving her hand in front of Mickey’s face and he rolls his eyes, having to wade his way through pasta noodles and two loaves of bread to find the yellow processed cheese.

Mickey presses the bag into Sandy’s awaiting palm before finishing off his coffee and dropping the mug into the sink with a clink. “While you’re burning the place down, I’m gonna head out.” 

“Head out where?” Sandy tries to ask even as she’s digging in paper bags, pulling out tomatoes from a can and a brand new spatula. 

“Just out. I’ll be back before dinner.”

It’s his lucky day that his cousin is fairly distracted and she lets him pass with such a vague answer, only nodding as she flips open the recipe book again. “Yeah, damn right you better be.”

Mickey bears his teeth at his cousin, snatches his keys off the only visible space left on the counter and hightails it out before Sandy can remember to start her third degree. It’s a cloudier day outside than he expected, overcast and foggy but it’s fitting in a way because soon Mickey won’t have any more sunshine left to account for. Soon he won’t have anything left to show for all the time he’s spent trying to change.

It’s another mundane trip to the Gallagher house, the same stupid train ride and the same boring old street but Mickey still gets a tiny burst of panic when he walks inside like he belongs there. Carl is the first person he sees and he’s poised in front of the television set, fiddling with the dials and in the kitchen, he catches a flash of brown curly hair that he can only assume belongs to Lip. Neither of them acknowledge his presence and it’s better that way — a quick in and out with as few casualties as possible. If that is still an option. 

He takes the stairs two at a time and down the hall, he spots that silhouette that has become a fixation in his mind. The door to the boys’ room is open and Mickey leans against the doorframe silently, simply taking in the sight in front of him. Ian’s face is completely relaxed as he strums on the tired strings of his acoustic, playing a light tune that Mickey can’t place. A notebook sits by his side where there are hundreds of scribbles criss crossing over the lines in all directions. He can’t make out any of the words but he doesn’t try to, clearing his throat to get Ian’s attention instead. 

Ian looks up almost straight away and his right hand comes off his guitar, splaying flat onto his notebook and pushing it back behind him. “Hey,” he says softly, blinking as he strums out a random chord. 

“Busy?” Mickey manages a step into the room but he stops just short of the bed, feeling that weight settle back onto his sternum. 

Setting the guitar down just next to the end of the bed frame, Ian shakes his head and pushes a few odd scraps of paper out of the way to clear the space next to him. “Not for you.”

It shouldn’t knock the wind out of him but it’s so casual, so clear and Ian doesn’t have the slightest clue that Mickey is here to ruin everything. He’s here to build that wall higher and higher until Ian can’t climb over, until he can’t tear down a single brick. But his words still come out gently and he walks forward, the soles of his shoes digging into the carpeting. 

“You writing something?” Mickey asks as he sits down beside him, their thighs just barely brushing against each other. 

They’ve talked about Ian’s music before — including Mickey indulging him enough to let him play — but it never occurred to him that Ian wrote his own. That he actually had the fortitude to put his feelings on paper. 

Ian shrugs, folding the notebook in half along one of its several creases and shoving it into one of his drawers, buried under magazines and clip outs. “It’s nothing. Just thoughts. Ideas.”

“Mmm.”

“Sandy told me about her moving in with you.” Ian stretches out his limbs and rests his body weight back on his palms, his fingertips raw and blackened from where he pressed them into steel strings. “I tried asking for you but —.”

Mickey cuts him off at the pass, his shoulder blades squared off with the tension pulling his muscles into thin bands under his skin. “Had to think about some stuff.”

“Okay.” Ian flinches slightly, his teeth picking at the skin on his bottom lip. “Why does that sound like bad news?”

Mickey’s gaze finds the calendar on Ian’s wall and it inches toward September faster by the second. The days have blurred past him that the minutes somehow became days and the hours, years but every day on that calendar marked with a bold black ‘x’ reminds him that in just a short few months, Ian Gallagher has managed to change it all.

And yet here Mickey is, sprinting toward their expiration date. 

“I got a lot of shit coming down on me and—” Mickey pauses, rolling over the words that he rehearsed in his mind as if anyone could wax poetry when they’re ignoring the sound of their own heart. “I think I’ve got to go it alone for a while.”

Mickey thinks about his brothers. About Colin’s venom and the way his expression shifted into something dark and ugly when he talked about Ian. He thinks about his dad and his guns, his fists, the way they break skin and leave scars with no remorse. When it all boils down to it, Mickey thinks that denial is better than dying. 

“Hey.” Ian shifts in place and the single syllable is already pitched up an octave, inching on placating him. “If this is about your dad...”

Mickey cuts him off with a shake of his head, angling his body away from Ian’s and he finds a spot on the carpet to watch instead. “You said it yourself, right? That we’d be cool if this was it.” And it’s amazing even to Mickey how the words come out so sure of themselves when that’s the last emotion coursing through him.

A scoff of disbelief leaves Ian’s lips and he stands up abruptly, knocking his foot into this acoustic — the rattling of the strings producing a dull twang. “Mickey.” The desperation is resounding, the column of his throat tightening and he turns to face Mickey with his hands up in defeat. “I wanna be with you.”

Mickey searches the carpet for another spot to focus his attention, afraid of what he’ll see when he looks up. If only Ian knew how hard this is for him but something stops him from spilling the truth. Every twisted emotion he’s buried. “Yeah well, you don’t get to be.” He looks up at the last second, his shoulders slumping forward in defeat.

Ian stands there, staring into Mickey’s soul with those piercing green eyes and they do everything in their power to weaken his defenses but he can’t let them. The bravest thing he can think to do is look Ian in the eye and tell him he’s not ready. It’s not their time and Mickey can’t do it. He _can’t_ do this.

The pair are locked in a stalemate, neither of them willing to lay down the final straw and it burns so much more than Mickey anticipated. It’s a firestorm that he couldn’t have prepared for — a series of wounds he can’t heal. In a house full of people, Mickey chooses to carefully walk over to Ian and he puts a hand on either side of his face, his fingertips tracing the frown lines on Ian’s cheeks. The light in Ian is already dimming and a throbbing blossoms in Mickey’s chest from having to witness it firsthand. 

Maybe this is heartache. 

When Ian doesn’t push him away, Mickey presses his forehead to his and he wants to stop the flow of time so he never leaves, is never forced to move on but months are fleeting and hours are gone in the blink of an eye. So Mickey gives Ian all that is left for him to give. His thumb follows the length of Ian’s cheekbone and he brushes their lips together so that every caress sends a spark all along his spine. Ian’s hands hover by his sides until he lifts one to grip at the back of Mickey’s head, his breath sharp with the aftertaste of pot. He’s intoxicating, the one drug that Mickey knows will stay locked in his veins, battling him into addiction. 

So he holds onto him, he kisses him until his lungs can’t give away any more breath and he’s forced to pull away but even then, he’s surrounded by the scent of Ian’s cologne and blanketed in the warmth of his breath. It’s everything he wants and there’s no comfort in the notion. Not when he knows the destruction that comes with feeling so strongly, with giving yourself away so freely. Ian’s nose bumps against Mickey’s and his gaze is cast downward, forlorn. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Ian begs him with the softest crack in his voice, his hands gripping at the edges of Mickey’s shirt but he’s wrong because he does. He does have to do this. 

Mickey tears his eyes away from Ian and he leans back from his touch, letting Ian’s hands slide off his body. It’s sick that he misses the contact as soon as it’s gone, his insides screaming at him to change his mind. 

“We had a deal,” he says as coldly as he can, aiming to drive the thought deep into Ian that he can’t do anything but agree. “I’ll be seeing you, Gallagher.”

Ian doesn’t answer and where he’d usually make eye contact comes nothing but dead air and a blank stare. The cold shoulder he can take when it’s so much better than ruining everything good that Ian is and will be. Mickey goes to the door and stops, glancing back at Ian who settled himself by the window — a carton of cigarettes in his grip and his journal back in his lap. There’s tension in his body, a sadness in his profile but Mickey puts it out of his mind and takes the stairs wordlessly, maybe for the last time. 

And that’s it, isn’t? The end. This last part of the story. No grand reunions or happy endings. It ends here, a clear conclusion to a summer Mickey never expected. There’s an empty space between his ribs and when the blood pumps through, it’s hollow and echoing. He’s not okay with it but he’ll have to be. Just like everything else, Mickey doesn’t have a choice. 

With little more than pocket change on him, Mickey opts out of taking the L and crossteps a few side streets to get on the path back to his apartment. It’s the scenic route — all empty drug dens, buildings condemned by the city and shitty paper thin houses with screaming brats but the Southside noise is nothing compared to the bashing his own thoughts are giving him. 

He tells himself to forget it, to put Ian out of his mind but he’s running a marathon in his mind and he consumes everything around him. Every car honk, every whiff of smoke, every single step is Ian, Ian, Ian. Ian who Mickey let go. Ian who isn’t Mickey’s — never was and probably never would be. Ian who will be just fine without Mickey and that’s both sickening and comforting at the same time. Because it’s the right thing to do. Even if it hurts. 

But Mickey’s thoughts are nothing but intrusive and they tell him it’s cowardice and he feels it, he can feel that sickly crawl along his spine to the point that it worms inside his brain, mocking him just like his dad, just like his beer bottles, just like the stupid muscle in his chest that wants Ian.

He crosses down Central and down the shopping district, passing by boutiques and the odd coffee shop until the glint of a can in a window catches his attention. It’s alluring, it always is, but his stomach lurches and he blinks away the flashback to Ian’s cold and distant gaze. He wants to forget, he does, but Mickey can’t bring himself to go inside and buy the can — let it fix everything for a little while. 

It takes at least twenty minutes to get back, give or take, and it’s nearing the evening when he turns left onto the usual shitty road that leads down to his place. Another three minutes and Mickey is closing in on the apartment, able to make out the non distinct building from a distance, but as he approaches, he notices a long swirl of smoke rolling overhead that originates on the tip of Sandy’s cigarette. She’s perched on the step just outside his door, her knees pulled close to her chest. 

“Took you long enough,” Sandy says as he approaches, her knuckles turning pink for the slight chill. There are cigarette butts scattered at her feet, a good four or five with one still emanating smoke as it burns down to the filter. 

He doesn’t feed into the temptation to ask her what she’s doing out there. Mickey can’t really convince himself that he actually wants to know. Instead, he crosses over to her and stops just short of the step. 

“Gallaghers,” Mickey admits, stuffing his hands into his pockets to hide how they shake.

Sandy’s eyes follow his hands as she takes a drag, her face scrunching up as she inhales. “Everything okay?”

It’s a loaded question and the devil on his shoulder chants a distinct ‘no, nothing’s okay’ that Mickey tunes out. “It will be.”

Sandy nods and she scoots over on the step, leaving enough space for Mickey to sit down beside her. She lifts the Parliament from burning openly in between her fingers and holds it out for him to take, an unreadable expression on her face. 

“Ian put me onto them. Says they taste better,” she mutters to him for the sake of striking up

a conversion but it’s clear she’s just as defeated as he is. 

It’s even worse that just the sound of his name puts his throat into a vice grip, silently choking him out. “Yeah, don’t believe everything you hear,” he manages to croak out, taking the cigarette with as much steadiness as he can muster. 

Sandy chuckles dryly, glancing briefly back toward the closed door. “House is clean now, by the way. I figured if we’re gonna be roommates, I might as well keep my job as your maid.”

“I’ll look for a new place once I’ve got cash,” Mickey says as he takes a short drag off the cigarette, instantly hating the taste but not showing it. 

“You don’t have to do that for me, Mick. I’m a big girl now. I can find my own place to live once I save up the cash.”

“Yeah but I’m still your cousin.”

“My cousin who has his own life,” Sandy insists, her left hand waving emphatically as she snatched the cigarette back from him. “You’re doing the right thing, you know?” She takes another drag, sighing as she puffs the smoke through her nostrils. “Can’t be scared of Terry forever.”

“I’m not,” Mickey says but the words taste false coming out. “I won’t be.”

The sky up above goes dim as the minutes tick by, casting in the cloudiness of the late afternoon but neither of them offers to go inside. They did it all the time when they were kids — run through warehouses and parks with Colin and Iggy until nightfall. It was better to take their chances on the alleys of the South Side than face Terry’s drunken tirades for longer than they had to. 

Today feels the same way and Mickey can’t put his finger on why but there’s a bitterness to the wind, a chill to it as he brushes past them. He only gets up to gather up a few beers to take outside, leaving the bottles between their feet.

_Listen to the wind blow_

_Down comes the night_

They’re a beer and two cigarettes down each when Mickey cracks his neck, groaning as he stands out of his scrunched position on the step. 

“Age is really coming down hard, isn’t it?” Sandy jokes and Mickey promptly flips her off, scowling so deeply that he can see the sharp furrow of his brow. 

“Fuck your lasagna. It’s probably shit.”

“You’re a shit.”

Mickey shrugs, nodding toward the door. “This shit is gonna leave you out here if you don’t hurry up.”

“Alright, alright, jerk. I’m coming.” Sandy gets up and brushes the dirt off her fading corduroys before picking up the stray bottles to pass over to Mickey. 

And for only a short fraction of time, everything is normal again. 

Everything is okay. 

As Mickey pushes the door open with his elbow and Sandy stubs out the remnants of her last cigarette underneath her boot. She’s only a step and a half behind him at best but he stops short of the ledge leading inside when flashes of red and blue appear from behind them, coloring the living room in multi colored flares through the open door. 

A shiver runs up Mickey’s spine and he’s transported back seven years to that desert, to the last time he saw those damn lights. He doesn’t move into action right away but the beep of the cop car triggers him enough that it’s only seconds later that he’s closing the door and stepping down the few steps to drag Sandy behind him. 

The car pulls up slowly, taking its sweet time turning into Mickey’s driveway. It’s ominous — this white and black Dodge Monaco emblazoned with the Chicago Police Department insignia on each side. The tires crunch the tiny white stones under its rubber, dust kicking up as it skids to a halt. 

The windows are dark enough that Mickey can only make out the silhouette of two men inside, hats brimmed wide on the tops of their heads. A chirp from a radio is heard through a crack in a back window, muffled voices calling out orders and numbers in rapid succession. The only word Mickey manages to catch is ‘Milkovich’ and his blood runs cold. 

Sandy stands just behind Mickey’s left shoulder and her mousy hair licks past her face, tangling in the air that circulates around them. The Milkoviches were always taught to prepare for anything, to use their feet to run, their connections to hide, their brawn to fight but entrapment is staring them down and neither dares to move. 

They stand there as the cop in the driver’s seat kills the car engine and says something unintelligible to his partner, his head turning to cast sideways glances at the pair of them. If Mickey were still a kid, he’d be halfway down the block, jumping fences as he laughed in their faces but that path is long gone to him now. 

Eventually the cops make their way out to them, keys jingling against the pistols in their holsters secured at the hip. They reek of cologne and superiority, lazy ass excuses for justice just like all the others. 

The one in charge, the one from the driver’s seat takes his hat off and tosses it to his younger partner. It uncovers most of his face but most notably, the shit-eating smirk he’s wearing. “We got called out to pick up a Milkovich.” His chin angles to the spot behind Mickey and he continues. “Sandy.”

Mickey’s defenses flicker awake and he stands firm, already puffing up his chest. “She didn’t do shit.”

“Not what we heard,” the man answers blandly, hocking up a wad of tobacco spit and launching it into the dirt. 

“And what was it you fucking heard?” 

Mickey’s rebuttal only makes the cop chuckle darkly, one of his hands shooting out to bump his partner as if the whole thing was a fucking joke. “Pretty sure your name’s not Sandy.” And again he motions to Sandy. “Let’s go. Don’t make me have to shoot you.”

Sandy is stone beside him and her eyes have blown to three times their size but Mickey knows she’s reached the same conclusion as him. Terry, Colin. They warned him, warned both of them, and they didn’t listen. Those sick fucking bastards. 

Milkoviches all knew that there was no way to hurt the enemy more than hitting them where it hurts and Terry aimed right at Sandy. At his own flesh and blood. 

The cop beckons Sandy closer with one finger and his cousin moves forward, steeling her jaw into hardness just like she was always taught to do. But before she can get too far, Mickey barks without a second thought and his hand encloses around her bicep. “Hey, hold on. Hold on!”

The cop scoffs and remains unfazed as he produces a pair of steel handcuffs from his waist belt, clicking them open. Just the sound alone makes Mickey tighten his hold on Sandy, desperate, though he knows there’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing a Milkovich can do other than be guilty. 

“Mick, it’s okay,” Sandy reassures him delicately, the ghosts of her sadness all that’s remaining in her gaze as she peers over her shoulder at him. “It’s okay.”

_Run in the shadows_

_Damn your love, damn your lies_

Sandy reaches for Mickey’s hand and she gently pries his fingers off her arm with this resilience in her eyes that he’s never truly seen before. He’s always known she was stronger than him, more capable, but now he sees it. He can see it in how easily she accepts her fate. 

Dark sunglasses are perched on the cop’s nose but Mickey can sense his eyes on him — the condescending way he sucks on his teeth and the unsavory way his fingers reach out for Sandy’s arm. It had been years now since Mickey tangled with a cop but the contempt is still the same. 

Fucking pigs. 

The man and his partner chuckle at nearly the same time and Mickey realizes he’s taken several steps forward, fists already threatening to raise. 

“I’d watch yourself if I was you,” the cop on the right speaks and his badge reads ‘Boone’ in black against shined up silver. “Don’t look like you’ll last another couple years in the joint from where I’m standing.”

A loud huff expels from Mickey’s nose and he flares angrily, his fists clenched, practically burning to watch their blood spill onto the concrete. “Fuck you.”

But Milkoviches never truly win so he holds back, stews in the bitterness that’s been locked up in him for years. The system never gave a shit about them; it wasn’t going to start now. 

“That’s what I thought.” Boone’s words ooze out with pure sleaze and he yanks Sandy forward so roughly that she nearly stumbles — the action lighting Mickey’s blood on fire. 

There’s no more delicacy in how he waves his partner off into the car, dragging Sandy toward the back seat. He opens the door only a quarter of the way before shoving her into it with one of his meaty palms pressing into the top of her head. Her small frame cramps into the space, her face obscured by the blank grate separating the two sections of the car. 

Sandy watches the ground and Mickey watches her, every part of his will power being tested. It’s another punch, the final K.O. and Mickey is down for the count because Sandy is his family, his cousin, his sister, his responsibility and now another life he’s somehow managed to crumble. 

The engine of the police car starts up and the urge to run after it grows exponentially the longer he stands there feeling powerless. The car backs away just as slowly as it entered and Mickey’s fingernails dig into his palm so hard blood spouts around the marks. 

_Break the silence_

_Damn the dark, damn the light_

The cops turn back onto the road and all Mickey can see as it disappears behind the glare of the lowering sun is the outline of Sandy’s head in the backseat. Losing Sandy, Lip, Ian — it’s all cumulatively worse than going back to prison. Separation he could do, he’d done it before but now nothing is fixed. Nothing is set right. He watches the cop car until it turns behind a set of houses toward the freeway and there’s a delay in the time it takes to kick in but when it does, it hits him full force.

Mickey turns abruptly and storms into the house, throwing the front door shut that it almost completely comes off its rusted hinges, the wood cracking around the handle. It’s mindless and useless but Mickey stomps back and forth in his living room, tosses everything on his table onto the floor, nearly tears the phone out of the wall in his path of destruction, and when it all comes to a head, there’s only one other person on his mind. 

Mickey can’t lose him now. 

So he runs. Mickey runs his way from his apartment to the Gallaghers in one solid break, gasping for breath with every mile he clears. He had it planned. Mickey was going to do the right thing. Say goodbye to Lip, end things with Ian, protect Sandy, live his life quietly like he should have done from the beginning but it was all wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. 

Mickey can barely get a breath in when he rounds the corner to the Gallagher house, dashing up the steps and laying several heavy knocks on the wood with his still healing hands. There’s a cry out from inside and feet going up the stairs before Fiona comes to the door, her hair up in a messy bun at the top of her head.

Her smile is genuine when she sees him and she laughs, shaking her head at the sight of him. “You know you can just walk in, right?”

“Ian home?” Mickey gasps out, his fingers gripping the door frame for support. 

Fiona’s smile fades to one of confusion and she blinks, tugging the door hand closed to block the inside. “No, he went out.”

And that’s already wrong. He can’t think of a single day where he didn’t know where Ian was, didn’t hear from him. “Out where?”

“Don’t know. He didn’t say.” She shrugs, only looking more and more puzzled as Mickey tries to collect himself. “Just said he was going to see a friend for a while, took his guitar, and a bag and left.”

“Fuck,” Mickey swears out breathily, running a hand through his hair as he thinks. Overthinks. 

He couldn’t just leave and he plays out scenarios in his head, of where Ian would go if Mickey had broken him in just the right way. Crossed the wrong lines. There’s Ned, clubs, the rooftop, or worse — there’s the open road. Just like when Ian lost his mom. His escape. 

Fiona’s hand finds her way to his lower arm but Mickey brushes her off callously. “Mickey, what the fuck’s going on?” 

“Nothing. Nothing.” Mickey attempts convincing but it leads toward panic and his world is in a fog, barely clear enough to make sense. “Just tell him to call me or something, yeah?”

“Mickey,” Fiona calls him again but there’s no use. 

“I gotta go.” Without another word, Mickey leaves Fiona gaping at her own doorstep and he heads down the steps back toward the sidewalk. 

He’s not _gone_. He knows that rationally. Ian is a popular guy, handsome, outgoing — he can see whoever he wants and go wherever he wants but deep in the recesses of his memory, he remembers Ian’s stories — everything Ian told him in confidence. And fear strikes Mickey again as the paranoia settles in. 

Mickey doesn’t know Ned’s number and the guy doesn’t care enough about Ian to keep pushing it after Mickey came after him. The clubs would be a hit or miss, his last resort, but Ian wouldn’t take a bag to a fucking club. It leads Mickey to the rooftop — a place Ian went to think and that’s it. That has to be. Because if it isn’t, Mickey doesn’t know what he’ll do. 

He didn’t mean forever. He didn’t mean it.

Mickey’s heart beats so hard that he can feel it leaping into his throat with every step and the blood rushes into his head, making it difficult to focus. He takes to the streets without thinking, moving in between locals until he’s at a very familiar intersection that’s just now opening up its doors for the evening crowd. The alley comes up on his left and Mickey goes down it immediately, his legs barely able to keep him going from how much they shake.

The ladder is still in place and it takes a few unsteady jumps to pull down but when he does, Mickey climbs it to the top as the sky shifts into the multi-colored shine of sunset, lighting his way as he climbs higher and higher. He wills him to be there. Strumming away on his guitar, swinging his legs over the side of that building, humming a tune under his breath, as he waits for Mickey’s arrival. 

He’ll be there. Mickey will look him in the eye, see that beautiful fucking smile, and it’ll be like it all never happened. _He’ll be there,_ Mickey tells himself like some sick mantra. He’s waiting for him. All Ian has to do is wait for him and he’ll take it all back. All Ian has to do is wait. 

The edge of the rooftop comes into view and when Mickey heaves himself over the ledge into the solid ground, everything goes dark. It’s just an empty expanse of gravel, the bustle of the street below being the only sound accompanying the whistling that rushes past his ear. 

He’s not there. 

He’s gone. 

And maybe that’s loss. 

_And if you don't love me now_

_You will never love me again_

Mickey walks toward the edge and sits himself down, letting his legs swing over the side. The sky is a dreary grey as the wind sharpens to a much stronger chill, and it’s over — summer leaving behind nothing but the fleeting remains of his happiness. Reality sinks in and he can already feel Ian fading out of his memory. He’s really gone. He won’t show up at the last minute, he won’t smile and say that they can fix it all together because Mickey broke him. He caused Ian to run and he knows it, he feels it in his bones as fact. 

As Mickey watches the people below go about their lives, ticking along to the rhythm of the growing night and it’s as if nothing has changed. The world still turns without him, life moves on with loss and grief and pain. It doesn’t stop for him. 

And Ian is not here. 

He sits there for an hour, maybe longer, he isn’t sure exactly, but by the time Mickey blinks, the chaos of the street is more of a dull roar and the grey of the clouds is now a murky black, pinned with tiny points of light. It’s what his world looks like now — empty. Mickey only knows one way to fill the emptiness without him. Without anyone. He only knows how to be this secondary version of himself when he’s alone. 

He doesn’t remember much after that. Not the trip down the ladder, not the looks from people on the street, not the walk home, not the whiskey bottle that he takes from under the sink and empties into his mouth. It burns on the way down but it’s nothing compared to that damn hollowness. The alcohol fills it for a while until Mickey is just on the point of forgetting until it rushes back and attacks him. 

There’s no one to stop him now. Sandy isn’t here to tell him he’s being an idiot. Lip isn’t here to pry the bottle from his hands. Ian isn’t here to be stupidly optimistic and light his way through the tunnel. 

No one’s here.

So Mickey lets it all go. He bumps his way through his living room and into his bedroom, sticky palms leaving residue on his white walls. Not bothering to turn on the light, Mickey drags himself over to the closet and rips it open with a fury he didn’t know was in him until that very moment. He tears down every hanger until they’re nothing but a heap on the ground, tossing shirts and pants every which way until he finds it. 

The leather is the same as it was months ago — worn-in and fragrant with that distinct smell that’s been cauterized into Mickey’s senses. It’s not him. It’s nothing. It’s just a jacket and he’s just a man and it was only one summer — but was it? Was that all it was? Mickey turns toward the bed with the jacket in his grip but he trips on a loose bit of carpeting, falling on his back with his eyes toward the ceiling. 

Here he is. Just a man. Bruises and scars and tattoos and endless amounts of loss and a jacket cradled in his arms like it’s the most important thing in the world. A whistle comes from the crack in his window and Mickey struggles to find another word for himself other than pathetic. So he leans into it, turns on his side, and presses his nose into the leather of that jacket and he lies to himself. He lies to himself that this is okay.

But as the wind chill enters the room, one thing is perfectly clear — summer has come to a close and Mickey finally realizes he’s lost. Somewhere down the line, he let himself dare to dream. He let Ian become the sun that shone down on his skin and cast him in a rose colored light. He let himself believe that his life wasn’t destined for failure. But it all ends. Summer never lasts forever.

Summer ends and Mickey comes to find out that he never prepared for winter.

_I can still hear you saying_

_You would never break the chain_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's still quite a bit that these two are going to have to go through but for now, we're going to end this one on a bit of a sad note. Thank you for everyone reading or will read or have read and maybe leave me a comment in honor of aquarius season.
> 
> come talk to me at:  
> [@s11mikhailo](https://twitter.com/s11mikhailo) \- twitter // [xgoldendays](https://xgoldendays.tumblr.com) \- tumblr //  
> [s11mikhailo](https://curiouscat.qa/s11mikhailo) \- curiouscat


End file.
